


Requiem

by Embleer_Frith0323



Series: Carry Me [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Killing Joke (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: A Fair Bit of Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Coping, F/M, Family, Family Bonding, Fatherhood, Healing, Intended Patricide, Motherhood, Parenthood, Revenge, Romance, Soul-Searching, Talk of and Dealing with Disabilities, some sexual content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-05 16:48:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 86,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14048571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Embleer_Frith0323/pseuds/Embleer_Frith0323
Summary: Part 3 of Carry Me.





	1. Prologue and Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, y'all!
> 
> Sorry for the delay on this!! :-) I know I said Valentine's Day... I didn't mean to lie. XD *bows* My bad!
> 
> So this will be the first time I've ever double-dipped in stories (I have another WIP I'm posting), so this will be a new experience for me! Stepping out of my comfort zone. :D But a fair warning, until the other work is finished, this story will only updated about once a month. <3 Once the other story is out of my system, then I'll shift this to a weekly posting schedule. :-) (We can also thank the other dumb story for delaying this one's posting date.) XD
> 
> And I am posting the prologue and first chapter together because why not! XD 
> 
> Enjoy, everybody! Happy reading! <3 ^_^
> 
> Much love!
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF

**PROLOGUE**

_Quiet afternoons were never a longstanding state of affairs, eternally inclined to change like a prepubescent mood swing. I could be in the middle of homework, hanging out with friends, devoted to Donkey Kong Country Returns, or who knew what else when the buzzing on my alert would shatter the peace of an indolent hour._

_How the existence of Robin became known to the world as a public figure was one such afternoon, as I hopped on my bike to make my way home from school. It was nearing the end of the semester, almost summer vacation, and I told Alfred I’d rather ride my bicycle home and enjoy the weather. Always one to enable such things, he allowed me to bring the bike to school so I could ride it back to the manor. Not a short ride — a solid seven miles, and a tremendous act of faith on Alfred’s part allowing a ten-year-old to bike it over that distance partly through the crime-addled city of Gotham._

_I carried my signal in my pocket then, set to a dull vibration, one that I’d feel but no one would perceive (unless they were, you know, Kryptonian or something.) It had only been in its place for a few days — Zucco was put away, and I was officiated as Batman’s partner and protege._

_I was just pulling away from the elementary’s campus when I felt the vibration in my pants pocket. A thrill speared through me, something white hot and in the vein of pre-performance excitement, and I swiveled the bicycle into an alley._

_I had to think quickly on my feet — Bruce thought Alfred was driving me, and if I didn’t make it to the cache (one of the little hideaways where Batman keeps stuff for quick accessibility) like yesterday, it would give us both away and we’d catch holy hell. The comm registered Bats as already suited and on the move. I needed to make like a bread truck and haul some serious buns — my first test as Robin._

_I beat a rapid path to the cache, jumping curbs and barely skirting human traffic, coming dangerously close to skinning the rearview mirror off a parked car before finally turning into the alley at lightning speed. I checked for onlookers before falling into the cover of refuse and detritus, pounded the code into the terminal, and suited up like the devil was after me._

_I used the grappling hook to get to the rooftops, and sprinted with all my might across the tops of buildings, all but screaming with joy and adrenaline as I used the speedlines to intersect Batman’s path. He chased the Riddler up Cherry Street, and I pressed the signal to alert him to my own path, which would head the villain off at the four-way stop._

_Just as I leapt from the corner of the building when my quarries came into sight below, I let fly a handful of smoke grenades, utilized the line to slow my descent, and tucked into a somersault to disperse the impact of my fall. Leaping to my feet, I twisted into an airborne tornado kick, effectively laying the Riddler out on the seat of his goofy green suit. Batman came to stand beside me as the smoke cleared and our enemy became the first to behold Robin, the Boy Wonder._

“ _Who in Sam Hill are you?” he asked, for once at his wits’ end, bereft of his usual riddles, which was a bit of a letdown. I had expected something like Riddles in the Dark, a little square-off of brain teasers a la Gollum and Bilbo, but no such luck._

“ _I’m Robin, the Boy Wonder!” I said grandly, puffing out my tiny ten-year-old’s chest and looking as important as I could. “And_ you _must be the Arithmetic Man — you add trouble, subtract happiness, divide attention, and multiply stupidity!”_

_(I was so proud of that one. But Bruce chided me later for talking too much.)_

“ _Who?” he said, gawping, lifting a hand to rub his jaw._

_Bruce took the opportunity his confusion presented and gave him a good, swift, punishing kick to the temple, effectively knocking him flat._

“ _My protege,” he said flatly. “Consider him a trainee.”_

“ _Oh, no…” the Riddler moaned, and I laughed heartily._

_It was then the flashing cameras and extended phones taking video reached my attention._

“ _You do the honors, Robin,” Bruce said, and with a grin, I snared the Riddler in bolas to await the authorities._

_That began an entirely new life, comfortably partitioned by the schism created when I lost my family. It was an easy, obvious landmark, a clean divider between one and the other._

_Pieces and elements of the previous life remained — afterthoughts, influences, themes. But I was, down to the atoms, Robin. Nightwing. This was every bit the core of my identity as Flying Grayson and carney kid. Everything that comprised_ me _hinged on it. It was central, integral, critical._

_There_ was _no third life. There_ is _none. Except the one after._

**CHAPTER 1**

_Dick_

Light and snow. 

Those are the first things I remember. 

And the last things I remember. 

They’re what I’m staring at now, on March 27th, 2019. Well, the 28th, more like. It’s past midnight. 

Even though it was just last month, I don’t remember much of waking up all that well — just thoughts coming in bursts and sprints, overlaid with a profound disorientation. I roved my eyes across the entirely unfamiliar room in which I found myself, my body dead weight and sluggish, one eye itchy and blurred in a cloud of darkest gray, as though someone scribbled all over my cornea with charcoal. 

I tried to sit up, but felt something of a leaden jolt when I caught the impression that something was seriously, seriously _wrong_ , that I couldn’t sense the entirety of my body, that my form felt almost as though it were _asleep_ somewhere under my bottommost ribs. I quested for it, reaching half-blind with one hand, and found nothing, _felt_ nothing. Thoughts flitted frantically through my mind like birds — _was I blown in half, bitten in half, still alive by some miracle, about to die any second, was this it —_ but before I could properly take inventory of my parts, a dear, dear voice spoke. 

Artemis said my name, anchoring me in the stormy sea of confusion. And when I _saw_ her, and realized that she held my hand, that her palm was warm and tangible and very much there, I came back to myself enough to find my voice. 

I asked what happened, stuttering, finding even small words difficult to articulate, my lips and brain feeling as though they’d been shot with Novocaine. Artemis just scooted atop the bed beside me, hugging me, unspeaking, crying, laughing, apparently not having registered my increasingly urgent (and stuttering) inquiries. 

I finally gave up worrying about what happened after a moment, and just hugged her back, so grateful that at least she was there. She was a beacon to me, something to sail toward, a beckoning bell. Answers could come later. Until then, this would do. 

I held onto her, stilling the tumult within in her strong arms, the feeling of her familiar, trusted body, known to me through our years of training. Eventually, as her tears tapered and she took my face in her hands to kiss my forehead and cheek, I floundered, more confused and bewildered than ever, and asked where Wally was. 

Dead silence followed. A feather could have struck the floor with the cadence of a sonic boom in the absolute quiet. Dismay entered Artemis’ wet eyes, and her shoulders slowly sagged. 

Flash images kept sparkling in my mind’s eye, the whirling chrysalis, the blowing snow, the zips of color and lightning as the Flashes whipped around the generator. 

Was that how I got to where I was? 

“He’s l-l-late,” I said, my lips moving as though frozen, my thoughts processing themselves with ponderous tedium, my words stunted by the intrusive influx of air from the biPAP jammed over my face. “F-figures —” 

I realized sitting in bed that I felt almost as though I witnessed myself as I spoke and sat, that I was spiritually dislodged from my corporeal form, watching from afar as events unfolded. Then I faded — suddenly and completely. A blackness just fully swallowed my comprehension, all at once and leaving no room for any sort of cognizance. And there was nothing in that moment — just dark silence, a blank space, no awareness at all. 

I only came to with a start when Dr. Thompkins painfully squeezed my wrist. Startled and inexplicably frightened, I tore the biPAP away from my face, ready to level some serious questions on everyone around me. 

Artemis caught the tube, and as she did, I caught the scent of her lotion — 

_No, no, not just lotion, it’s her perfume roller, too — it’s rosemary mint, you got her started on those at Christmas a few years ago when she told you she liked your composition oil —_

The well known, comforting smell triggered something in the recesses of my mind, something beyond just _what_ the scent was, something that wrote entire volumes of stories all in a comparatively brief sequence of time. It evoked and conjured up whole _hosts_ of images and thoughts and emotions. I sat stupidly as it all unspooled within my struggling brain, powerlessly watching memories and events as they _really_ crashed in then — an overwhelming onslaught of them, making my skull feel fit to burst under the swift inundation. I grasped my head, squinching my eyes shut, feeling tears of pain as they poured fast in aggressive rivers down my cheeks. My head throbbed, straining as I fought to make sense of everything, to piece together all of the fragmented, disordered memories until they formed a cohesive, comprehensible whole. 

Later, I would learn that I had taken nearly half an hour just to start responding to the others in the room while I fought through the relentless fog that stunted my thinking to incorporate that massive influx of recollection and line it up in a manner I could tolerably fathom — and also to battle the rekindled grief of losing Wally, brought to the fore all over again. 

Then I just felt so hopelessly jumbled and lost, lying in that hospital bed, stared down by Dr. Thompkins, some other doctor I’d never seen before, and Artemis. _Nothing_ matched up with the incursion of memory that had just fallen into my brain. Could I even _trust_ those memories? Because from what I saw in front of me, they weren’t real at all. 

More disoriented than ever, I tried with all my might to remember something beyond the most recent memory that I could dimly conjure, but failed. All I recalled, and vaguely at that, was snapping a selfie before rushing out of my Haly’s trailer to perform. After that? Nothing. But I knew that, according to this little theatre troupe that had just put on the ultimate abridged performance of memories within my mind, Artemis had been _very_ pregnant — with _my_ child — in spite of everything, we were happy — all was right with the world — 

But standing in front of me after waking up to Thompkins squeezing my wrist and the thirty-minute bombardment of remembrance, Artemis was most definitely _not_ pregnant. 

God, she had _lost_ weight, if anything — and at that, a fair deal, even from her figure prior to the pregnancy I remembered. Two pounds more and she’d have hedged on looking unhealthy. Her hair was longer than I last recalled, and had some new color in it. Not anything overly bold — just some threads of what looked like soft copper and rose gold. She wore a long, side-parted bang that feathered over her forehead and framed her ovular face. It was a very pretty look on her, giving her a new sophistication and maturity, but it wasn’t _anything_ like what I remembered. 

_Did I dream everything?_ I thought wildly. _Was it all something Psimon created? Some perfect dream life that held me captive while the Light tried to have me killed? Was it one of those plants that does the same thing while sucking you dry —_

Then the next suspicion dribbled into my thoughts, another wholly plausible but _awful_ explanation for why and how the hell I was where I was, and then Thompkins gently, but matter-of-factly, confirmed it. 

I had been in a coma for _seven months._

I just blinked to hear this, staring, bewildered, lost. 

Seven fucking _months?_

“H-how?” I asked helplessly, grinding my hand into my clouded eye. “What happened? What’s happened s-s-s — sss-s —” I paused, exhaled. For some reason, for the life of me, I couldn’t articulate the word _since._ I could _think_ it just fine, but saying it was a completely different matter. I gritted my teeth, and realized with a sinking shock that I was missing several, my tongue striking firm, soft-surfaced gums in varying spots. My eye teeth and incisors were gone, a premolar or two as well. My heart guttered. 

What the _hell_ had happened to me? And what about _Mary?_

“Don’t strain, babe,” Artemis said gently, sitting down by me and laying a hand on mine. “Let’s just kind of take this slowly, okay?” 

I just gripped her hand, all at once overwhelmed with a powerful urge to cry — and never _stop_ crying. 

“What about… about the b-b-baby?” I asked, dreading the answer. 

Artemis smiled, granting me a moment of relief. 

“Mary’s fine, Dick,” she said. “She’s at home with my mom right now. We’ll bring her in as soon as we can, okay?” 

For some reason, though, I just wanted to cry even more desperately to hear Artemis say that. Mary was real, after all, and she was alive — 

Christ, and I wasn’t there. 

Before I could allow myself to even try assimilating _that_ terrible truth, I launched into the next interrogation. 

“What h-happened?” I asked. “Did I f-f-flip the bike? Did I fall? D-d-did the rigging f-f-fail?” I paused, and tried to joke in a slapdash effort to avoid crying. “Did I p-press the red button? Did I press it ag-again?” 

Artemis gave me another smile. “The answer to everything is forty-two. Take it easy, okay?” 

I sat, stalwartly fighting tears, clenching my remaining teeth and crushing Artemis’ hand in my shaking fingers, as Thompkins gave me the rundown on what landed me in that hospital bed to take a seven-month nap and sleep through my daughter’s birth in the first place, her demeanor kind and apologetic, but upfront and leaving no room for misinterpretation. My heart pounded in my chest with mounting speed, its thumps echoed by the beeps of the monitor, as she went over the goddamn _laundry_ list of what was wrong with me even now, seven months after what happened. 

And what _had_ actually happened? Well, no one, Thompkins included, seemed to want to tell me in any specifics, give me any sort of real, concrete answer. The most I got out of anyone was that I’d sustained a shotgun wound to the abdomen, some head trauma, broken bones, puncture wounds, and some lacerations and contusions. 

Okay, but _how,_ for crying out loud? 

Finally at my wits’ end, I gesticulated. 

“All right, I got h-h-hurt. Bad. I g-get it, Doc. But am I ever going to s-s-s-see out of this eye again?” I demanded, laboring under the strain of speaking. “When am I going to get the f-f-f — the f — the f-feeling back in my l-l-lllegs?” I paused, and thumped the bed in frustration. I wasn’t just losing my words somewhere between my brain and mouth and stuttering, I was lisping something _awful._ “Why can’t I t-t-talk properly? I feel like my brain’s just — f-f-fucking off — every time I t-t-t — make an effort to s-s-sp-s — _talk —”_

Artemis squeezed my hand, her touch gentle, but insistent. 

“Take a breath, sweetheart,” she admonished me. 

I did, trying to slow my galloping heart, to hold the rising tide of panic and despair at bay. 

“Dick,” Dr. Thompkins said, and I lost all efforts to breathe and quell the panic at her expression and tone. 

“What,” I said, my hoarse voice breaking. 

“We might as well get the bad news out of the way first,” she said with a sigh. “I’m really sorry to have to tell you this, but… honey, you won’t be regaining the feeling in your legs. The gunshot wound severed your spinal cord under the first lumbar in totality. There’s no treatment for a spinal injury of that severity, no way to rectify it. But…” She gestured a bit. “Paraplegics still live very fulfilling, active lives, just with some adjustment —” 

My heart _stopped._

“Para-paraplegics?” I said, my mouth going slack. 

Dr. Thompkins’ lip thinned into a sympathetic look. 

“Yes,” she said, dropping the obligatory _it’ll be okay_ monologue that doubtless had been on the tip of her tongue. “I’m afraid so.” 

“I’m… I’m one?” I asked, even as the tide of panic that I battled so valiantly swelled and took over. 

_No. No. NO. NO. No no no no no no no no no no no — it’s only fractures — legs are just broken — just broken legs — no —_

“Yes,” she told me gently. “I’m sorry.” 

The tears I’d resisted all came in one positively magnificent burst then, and I sobbed helplessly in that stupid prison of a bed in that stupid hospital room with its stupid oatmeal walls and floor. I didn’t stop when tears soaked my neck and shoulders, or when Artemis stopped her attempts to calm me and just wordlessly drew me close to her, not even when Thompkins tried to speak to me. 

_Please just leave, just go away, just leave me alone —_ I thought desperately, burying my face in the material of Artemis’ hooded sweatshirt. 

I couldn’t even begin to articulate any real thought or process any real feeling, beyond just letting all of the raw, swelling, condensed emotion explode from me in a tempest that was surely awe-inspiring to outside eyes. I knew that I’d never be able to answer Dr. Thompkins like that. 

She finally withdrew, and I sobbed into the soft cotton of Artemis’ hoodie until I had no tears left. And after that, I sobbed until my nose felt swollen to the size and appearance of an apple. I sobbed until my chest burned and my throat went ragged. Even as I tried to slow down and stop, as I tried to wrap my head around the insurmountable horror of everything I had just been told, I sobbed. Even as I tried to explain it away and render it all fixable in my mind and tell myself none of this was true, that I could overcome it, that there was still _hope,_ I sobbed. I sobbed all the way up until I finally passed out against Artemis’ shoulder, overcome by an exhaustion so complete it sapped me of all cognizance — even the ability to dream, which, in hindsight, was probably not the worst thing ever. 

When I woke up, it took a long time to reintegrate my surroundings and comprehend them. I awoke feeling like everything was normal in the first clotted moments of sleep muddled half-awareness, but when the cobwebs first started to sway and dissolve, I wrestled with the shadowy, nebulous sense that something wasn’t right, that something was completely wrong, that I was utterly and inconsolably distraught for some egregious reason. Artemis later would tell me that she often experienced the same thing when she was at home and I was first in the hospital. 

Finding that one eye refused to clear itself, and that I couldn’t comfortably sit up since my body seemed to be numb, asleep, or plumb missing under my ribs, I woke up fully in a rush. Everything came back to me, slithering into my consciousness like an infectious worm, and I sagged back into the pillow even as my heart raced in my chest. I was _exhausted_ — just completely, completely drained _._ The winter sunlight blasting through the window lanced into my one working eye like a volley of blinding gold spears. My shoulders were tight and strained, my arms ached dully at the crooks, and my lungs rasped and burned as though they’d just been put through a series of sprints across the English Channel in stormy water. Even my face felt raw and tired, my eyes hot and itchy. My mouth was parched and foul. I wondered briefly when the last time I’d had a proper shower was, and then felt my chest quake and gorge rise when I realized that I couldn’t just get up and go take one — that I’d probably have to be lifted and wheeled and helped along until I “adjusted.” 

_Don’t panic,_ I told myself. _Don’t lose it. It’s just temporary. Thompkins is wrong. This won’t be forever._

I spent a few moments breathing in and out, assisted by the pull of the cannula I found in my nostrils. I couldn’t help feeling somewhat grateful for the aid to my weak, laboring lungs. How long would _that_ go on, I wondered? 

My momentary calm dispelled itself when I found I was alone. I frantically located and thumbed the call button for the nurse, sick with abrupt panic and _needing_ to be away from the terrors that lay within the landscape of my own thoughts, waiting to spring in moments of lone vulnerability. 

Unfortunately, all that action did was serve to launch the beginning of the _endless_ series of interrogations, tests, and barrages of information and related “options” that characterized the week that followed, all of the endless treatments and therapies that came after — everything of which led me to where I am now, lying alone in this hospital bed six weeks later, watching the snow come down outside through the window. 

I glance down at my hand where it rests atop the beige blanket, wrap up a fistful of the material, and squeeze, closing my eyes and breathing my way through a shiver of sickening anxiety, an exceedingly common thing nowadays, but infinitely, infinitely worse since this morning. The worst I’ve had yet since waking up forty-two days ago. 

God, I _hate_ that Artemis is gone. I’ll never come out and say it to her, knowing damn well she has a life outside of this hospital and invalid boyfriend in the form of work and our baby, but I can already barely stand it when she leaves, and after the events of this morning, I sobbed to the point that I hurled all over myself (Christ, sorry, nurses) when she ducked out for the night. She’s dropped team duties for the time being, something I formerly wrestled with some guilt over, but now find myself incontestably grateful to her for. 

The thing is, I _think_ I’ll be okay come morning — at least, okay enough to do what I need to do and attempt making regular progress from this horrible rock bottom I’ve face-planted on — when she shows up at eight for the weekend visiting hours. 

I might not have accepted or even acknowledged this until just now — but I’d have been dead a week ago if not for Artemis. And I have to accept and acknowledge it now — _I need her_ , whether that’s fair to her or not (and it isn’t. It’s unfair as hell to her, placing so much emotional pressure on her, fully depending on her presence just to make it day by day.) But she anchors and inspires me — she’s just shown _so_ much strength and gumption, taking this whole ordeal on the chin and remaining unfailingly steady and unmovable even when things look totally bleak. I’ll never deny the validity behind the claim that illness is often harder on the caregiver than on the cared for, and in this case, I _know_ it has to be true. But in spite of the unbelievable strain placed on her, she tirelessly muscles on — caring for me more devotedly than the most qualified nurse, never growing impatient (unless she’s dressing down incompetent medical staff — _then_ the forthright, caustic, and unapologetically opinionated Artemis Crock that I know and love comes directly and oftentimes loudly to the fore.) Her loved, familiar, trusted presence stills the storm that whirls inside me, tames the anxious beast that circles and paces relentlessly in the pit of my belly. 

Thompkins is permitting Paula to come with her this time — and honestly, thank God. Talking to Paula — _really_ talking to her, as Artemis has so frequently urged me to — about this is something I’ve finally acceded that I need to do, and stat. Thompkins finally decided to allow more visitors than just immediate adult family, having looked over the slews of reports and diagnoses from the specialists I’ve seen to find that I exhibit no symptoms of post-coma paraschizophrenia or fronto-temporal dementia (whatever the hell _that’s_ supposed to mean), the “atypical” aphasia I _have_ been officially diagnosed with is manageable with treatment (the moniker “aphasia” has been ascribed to my condition as something of a blanket term for my comparatively minor speech and language impairment, thanks to the wonders of _drain bamage —_ ha, ha!), and my counts are improving slowly but surely. Extending that list specifically to Paula couldn’t be better timed. Tim will be coming on Sunday, tomorrow, and on Monday… Amy, my BPD boss, along with some detective named Gannon something (naturally, my mind defaults to Ganondorf, but that’s not right.) Time to answer what questions I can, and start piecing together the forensics of how I landed here. 

But… still no Mary. Because I’m “not quite well enough yet” (immunosuppression issues — or what the hell ever.) 

The grip around my heart strangulates, garroting my breath. 

_Breathe, Dick, breathe —_

I do, pulling air in via the cannula, exhaling slowly through my lungs, six-eight-seven. With each inbreath, I think of her, my eight-month-old daughter, whom I’ve never met. With each outbreath, I think of Artemis. 

Thoughts of them both should remind me of why I’m still here, why I need to at least _try,_ what purpose there is in moving forward, even now. 

But right now, Artemis is gone. The box of Valentine’s cards penned to me by my friends and the memory therapy letters Arty wrote me while I was under, a source of solace in lonely hours, rests out of reach, and it’s not like I can just hop out of bed and retrieve them. It’s just me and my thoughts — my _other_ thoughts. 

I used to dream about this, waking up to discover myself crippled and isolated, and the twisting panic that pulsed and beat in those terrible nightmares would grasp me in suffocating claws when I jerked awake, sweating and gasping, my heart stampeding in my chest. The terror would only recede, slowing the frantic races of my heart and lungs, when I tested my limbs, got out of bed, and walked around, reassuring myself that I wasn’t Uncle Rick, that I was all right, that I was still _myself._ Then I’d cry over the possibility of _living_ that waking nightmare — a very legitimate possibility in _both_ my lines of work — and harder still over how my cherished uncle, once sprightly, ablebodied, and strong, unjustly suffered in his wheeled prison. I woke up a one-night-stand with one of those terrors some years ago, and even though I knew the poor girl was clearly discomfited to wake up to me screaming and crying, I couldn’t quell the outflux of emotion as I sat on the edge of my bed, overwhelmed with images of my uncle, before and after, and visions of myself as a deformed, immobilized husk. I never opted for casual sex with strangers ever again after that. 

Now, reclining here, entirely awake, my internals alight with chaos as I gaze at the peaceful snowfall, the terror doesn’t go away. It’s not replaced by sorrow and grief. It remains, burgeoning and growing, enfolding me, swallowing me. And I lie arrested in it, powerless under it, thinking only about sprinting toward some solution, something to _undo_ all of this. 

_How did it all go so wrong so fast,_ I wonder, squeezing the handful of blanket, _just… how could I be so okay, so convinced I was okay only a few hours ago, and now find myself_ here, _like_ this? 

_Oh, God, Dick, just cut it out,_ some biting voice from my mind’s recesses interrupts my wondering. _You ought to know darn well how._

I was doing all right this morning (well, yesterday morning, I guess), for the most part. If I said life was _easy_ at this point, I’d be lying out of both sides of my missing teeth, but I’ve at least been keeping my chin up as I’ve attempted to surmount the towering peak in front of me, certain that smoother sailing lies on the other side. Surgeries to (somewhat) correct the damage to my eye and replace my missing teeth are inbound soon, which will doubtless make this whole process incomprehensibly less arduous. And I’ve got a high capacity for belief in the unbelievable, as I like to say — I’m not one to just take _everything_ doctors say as the be all, end all. I’ve seen even the most dour of prognoses overcome in their entirety, to the shock of all medical professionals the world over, time and time again. Jason came back from the dead after being _autopsied,_ for crying out loud. No way will I just blindly accept a doctor’s word after that. 

So even though each day’s been the ultimate endurance test through hell on earth, full to the brim with unending humiliation, torturesome treatments, and being worked to the bone in physical, cognitive, and speech therapies, I’ve kept a (closed-lipped) smile on my face and plowed forward through every sickening indignity and brutal inpatient treatment, determined to prove everyone around me wrong, to convince them that this immobilized not-life is just a temporary state of affairs. I’d been so _sure_ of it, myself — that this life of emasculation and need and burdening others isn’t to be forever. And wouldn’t I surprise them all when I proved as much, and justified Artemis’ dedication? 

_I won’t be weak or a problem for everyone for much longer,_ I’d tell myself every morning after waking up, _I’ll get up out of this bed, out of that wheelchair, and_ walk _out of this hospital. I’ll walk my daughter into her first day of school, I’ll walk beside her as she moves toward her goals, I’ll walk her down the aisle at her wedding, if that’s what she desires for her life. I_ will. 

I’d been so damn sure. Or at least — I’d _thought_ I’d been sure. 

And now… 

Now, I’m definitely not so sure. 

I fight a pang of nausea, thinking that my newfound sense of despair, long simmering ignored somewhere beneath the surface, came with physical therapy, aka PT, aka pain and torture yesterday morning. 

Bruce, being the boss of pretty much the free business world, has a little more liberty with his schedule than Artemis does (when he so chooses), so I tend to see him every morning during the PT sessions with Tal, my physical therapist. Arty’s never been able to make those, given they coincide with her work hours, but Bruce has unfailingly turned up for them. Even though he’s clearly stiff and uncomfortable to see me the way I am these days, he sits in on these, going through the passive and active exercises with Tal and me, providing something of an assist to both of us. 

Although I might have been a little annoyed at any other time, I appreciate the gesture on Bruce’s part — that he’s making an effort, despite the fact that he’s obviously ill-at-ease. 

So it’s not like I habitually lash out all through every single PT appointment, but I do have the occasional moment when I _need_ a time out. And the fact that I can’t always comfortably articulate the fact that I might need a break only makes a difficult task that much worse. Trying to talk through a detrimental stutter symptomatic of what turned out to be clinical aphasia isn’t always the easiest thing even in the most permissive of circumstances, and when you’re huffing, sweating, red-faced, and exerting yourself already — well, it’s just hard. 

So all too commonly, the more difficult a time I have communicating, fighting to pop even one word out through the stutter that only gets worse under bodily duress and exhaustion (with the added joys of embarrassing and entirely involuntary clicking and grinding sounds in the back of my throat as I strain to form the words), the harder Bruce and Tal unwittingly push me — mistaking my slowing movement for fatigue. They think they’re encouraging me — not realizing that I’m actually struggling, that my body is telling me to stop. I don’t want to let them down, so I usually put my head down, get my Irish-Romany-Batkid up, and break through the intense discomfort, but sometimes — I lash out. 

In the case of this morning, lashing out included lying on my back and shaking my head no. It was the best I could manage. Speech and cognitive therapy have done exceptionally little to improve my relentless stutter and mitigate the aphasia thus far, and earlier in the day as I worked with Tal while Bruce looked on and assisted occasionally, I couldn’t readily express to them that everything I could still sense _hurt._ And it did — feeling much as though a parade of insects had been lit on fire and sent on a march through my body, tearing through my joints in a burning swath of agony. My lungs felt as though someone had clamped a vice over them. I lay spent and hurting, just shaking my head, occasionally gesturing at them when they approached. 

“D-d-damn it, I just need a b-b-b-break — everything f-f-f-fucking hurts,” I finally snarled, craning my neck, unable to fully sit up (which was what we were working toward, ultimately.) Bruce’s lips thinned and shoulders stiffened, and I leveled on him a stare that should have obliterated him into dust. I was all at once completely fed up with his open discomfort. “And Ch-ch-christ, Bruce, if it makes you so unc-c-c-c-comfortable to be here, why don’t you d-d-d-d-d-do us all a f-f-ffffff —” I paused, anchored, and took a breath, “solid and bounce? Th-there’s no need for you to st-stay, once I g-g-g-get my l-legs working again —” 

“Dick, you’re not going to get your legs working again,” Bruce said, a slight hint of exasperation entering his voice. 

It was a conversation that he and I had had more than once, and that usually ended in one of two ways — with a flippant, one-sided dismissal on my end, or with my shutting him out entirely, resolutely keeping up my internal monologue to the contrary. We hadn’t had words or _fought_ about the subject hitherto. 

But this time, I was hurting, agitated, angry, and on the fight — and out I lashed. 

Loudly. 

“ _Yes, I w-w-w-will —”_ I shouted, feeling my face as it heated and went red, the shivering in my chest as my heart got thrown into the next gear, “ _this is only t-t-t-temporary, I’ll get them w-w-w-working again — I_ will —” 

“Dick, no, you won’t,” Tal interjected, his voice gentle but firm. “I’m sorry, but you won’t. I believe with all my heart and soul in hope, but I’ll never set my stores by false hope. Nor will I lead others to do the same.” 

“Oh, shut the hell up, T-t-tal,” I snapped. “You’re b-b-both wrong. This isn’t p-p-p-permanent —” 

He just gave me a sympathetic look, unperturbed by my aberrantly rude display. “Yes, it is.” 

“No — it — isn’t,” I hissed with furious care, lifting my head, clenching my teeth. My neck strained. 

“Dick, you need to start accepting things as they are,” Bruce said sharply. “If you don’t accept them now, it’s going to be a hell of a lot harder to do so down the road. This is permanent. You need to accept that and move forward as is.” 

“ _It’s temporary!”_ I bellowed, pushing myself up by the elbows, my voice grating painfully in my throat, my face swelling with fury. “It’s only t-t-t-t-temporary, it’s not f-f-forever — _I’m not c-c-crippled!”_

“I wouldn’t use that term, Dick, but if that’s the one you want to go with, fine. Yes, you are,” Bruce said flatly. 

I slammed the mat with my fist, stuttered a whole bunch of failed gibberish, gave up attempting to speak, and slammed the mat again, several times, with increasing aggression. 

Tal began to speak. 

“Dick, I’m sorry —” 

“Stop s-s-saying that!” I screamed, pushing my weak lungs to their full capacity, blasting my voice at max volume. I was causing a scene and disturbing the other patients in the gym by then, but I couldn’t rein it in, however much I might have wanted or needed to. “Why are you s-s-sorry? I j-j-just told you — _I’m n-not crippled —”_

And then I was crying, loud, yelping sobs that started in my insensate middle and pulsed through my chest, rolling my shoulders and pouring tears over my cheeks, even as I kept repeating the words, “I’m not,” over and over again, like a mantra. 

Next thing I knew, my face was mashed against the hard surface of Bruce’s shoulder, my shrunken upper body engulfed in the hold of his brawny arms. Although his posture was inflexible and awkward, he _held_ me — drawing me nearer to him, lifting me from the mat when, after a moment of breathless shock, the tears returned, this time more violently. 

“Let g-go of me, B-b-bruce —” I sobbed, beating weakly at him, not even throwing him the slightest bit off balance. “Let me go —” 

He just shook his head, and held me tighter. 

I resisted a moment longer, squirming and pulling, smacking and pushing, before fisting two handfuls of his tee and burying my face in his shoulder. The sobs continued, wracking my body, twisting my severed, useless spine, skinning my throat. 

“I’m sorry, Dick,” Bruce murmured. 

I shook my head against his burly shoulder. “No.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I’m n-n-not — d-d-don’t say that —” 

“Dick, I’m sorry.” 

“ _No.”_

His arms tightened. “Yes.” 

“No —” 

“Yes, Dick.” 

My voice got more feeble. “No…” 

“Yes, son.” 

That — Bruce calling me that — that did it. And I _felt_ it as something broke in me, and although the tears didn’t come faster or slower, the nature of them shifted, and I cried wordlessly into my foster dad’s shirt for a moment or two. 

I knew. 

I had long known. 

“…I know,” I finally sobbed, somehow not stuttering. “I know.” 

Bruce just held me, his arms warm and strong and so profoundly _safe._ I kept on, holding onto him, shrinking into his grip. 

“Tal, I think this is enough for today,” he murmured, casting a look over his shoulder. 

Tal didn’t say anything, although he knelt by us, and even as I cried harder when Bruce let go of me, he boosted me up and into the wheelchair that I just really, really, _really_ hate. He squeezed my hand before Bruce silently wheeled me back to my room. Dimly, it occurred to me that I would _really_ owe Tal an apology the next time I saw him. 

Alfred waited in my room as was his habit after my PT sessions, and looked askance at me as I just kept bawling when Bruce and I entered. 

“Well, what on earth’s happened here?” he asked, approaching me. He bent down by my chair, and laid a hand on my arm. 

“Bit of a hard morning,” Bruce explained. When he went on, his voice was hushed. “Real talk.” 

“I see,” Alfred murmured, then rose. “Well, why don’t we get you in bed, Master Richard, and if you like, we can have a long chat about it?” His voice carried the comforting hum he saved for times that any of us were in serious physical or mental duress as he boosted me out of the chair like I weighed ten pounds, exhibiting the evidence of his military background. He bundled me into bed in no time flat. 

I shook my head, pressing my face into the pillow, trying unsuccessfully to hide the tears that just kept pouring. It sounds a little silly and even ungrateful, all things considered, but god _damn,_ I wanted my mom — so, _so_ badly, and with a vengeance. I fisted the blanket, crying to the point of heaves, missing her with every atom in my body, hating the world for taking her from me — but at the same time, grateful to that same world that my adoptive father and grandfather were there, an enormous pittance. 

“That’s just as well, then, sir,” he said gently. “What say I get some tea made and turn on some _Downton Abbey_ instead?” 

I nodded through the tears. Alfred withdrew. As he bustled about, Bruce came to my bedside. 

“…I’m sorry about everything, Dick,” he said. 

There was a long, long, _long_ spell of quiet. He reached down, and brushed the damp strands of sweaty hair from my forehead. One would think I’d have been nonplussed by his unusually affectionate behavior, but I wasn’t — not at all. Rather, I felt as though it was something I’d wanted — not even realizing that I _had_ wanted it — that had finally been given to me. 

It felt, to my own surprise, good. Wonderfully good. I didn’t want him to stop as my eyes poured endless, militant streams of tears over my face, my shoulders hitching with my untrammeled sobs. 

I just couldn’t speak, and not, this time, because of aphasia. There just… there weren’t really any words for how I felt. Every animus of grief and fear and loss that had lain in wait had finally sprung, overpowering and atomizing me. The inherent knowledge that the next step was to muster up and face the music — the real music, and from where I did, in fact, stand — hummed somewhere below the surface, but I couldn’t even give a nod in its direction. Not then. 

Finally, Bruce spoke again. “I am, Dick. Just so sorry.” He paused, and sighed. “…I should have been there.” 

_Don’t do that, Bruce,_ I thought, knowing that same guilt all too well, closing my eyes as my chest tightened and the tears flowed faster. I reached to him, and grasped his hand. I shook my head, squeezing his fingers, trying with all my might to communicate without words that I didn’t hold him responsible for any of this mess, that he didn’t need to feel that way, that there was nothing to forgive. 

He bent, kissed my forehead, and then backed away. 

“You know I wish I could stay,” he said. “But I’m on up top at eleven.” 

I squeezed his hand again, and he let go. He left the room after speaking with Alfred in a muted voice. 

His touch and comfort, now gone with him, couldn’t stay the hard and fast arrival of all those demons I’d held at bay through my own steadfast denial, and when he left, I just lay against the pillow, my unfeeling, immobile legs outlined under the oatmeal blanket, a cup of Alfred’s tea steaming pressed into one numb hand. My eyes burned and dribbled as the television hummed in my appropriated hospital room. Alfred sat beside me. 

“There now, Master Dick,” he said gently, taking my hand. 

“I w-w-want my mom,” I mewled pathetically, embarrassed at how plaintive those words were and forlorn my voice sounded, but I knew I was miles past all generally understood lines of dignity by then, anyway. Might as well be honest. 

“I know you do, sir,” Alfred murmured. “Anyone would.” 

“B-but I’m glad you’re here,” I said. 

“Always, Master Dick.” 

I cried. He held my hand, and stroked my hair, not stopping, not speaking. He kept on all the way up until I settled down, spent of all tears. Then, he started the streaming service to boot up _Downton Abbey,_ and kept his seat beside me, unspeaking, soothing company. 

He was honestly more effective than the most powerful pain reliever while he and I just watched _Downton Abbey_ together _,_ something we used to do when I was younger and it first aired. We both enjoyed talking about the history in the show, discussing the character interplay, and comparing the Abbey to Wayne Manor. We’ve watched it commonly nowadays together after PT, since having already talked the show to death, we can just watch it now in silence, keeping company until I pass out, lulled into a post-workout nap before Artemis arrives on her lunch hour to visit. Talking, Alfred knows, is a huge strain for me, even after the precursory twice-a-week speech therapy and thrice-a-week cognitive therapy sessions, as communicating through the aphasia and stutter is both frustrating and demoralizing. Writing unfortunately isn’t any better — it’s a bit of a trip, staring at a piece of paper with a pen in hand, knowing what you want to write, being able to perfectly visualize the appropriate letters and words in your head, and then finding yourself wholly and totally incapable of actually writing them down or typing them out. Thank God he doesn’t expect or incite me to speak, and also doesn’t hold me to attempt getting my thoughts down on paper. 

Although I lay inverted this morning with my whole world upturned all over again, Alfred’s staid, quiet presence was a distraction from my unending, sublevel distress, calming me into a fatigue that permitted for real drowsiness in spite of my internal tumult. He removed the tea from my hand as my grip slackened, and then rested beside me, his hand running over my hair, until I finally drifted off. I regrettably slept through Artemis’ daily lunchtime visit, coming to in the afternoon to find Alfred gone, replaced by Jason. 

Jason comes often — most afternoons, actually, and although I’m always happy to see him, I’m usually pretty wiped out toward the end of his visits. It’s not his fault by any stretch of the imagination, but trying to work my still inside-out brain around the netsec jargon in the notes that Tim has sent along with him while attempting to get even two words out in a non-stuttery sentence all wears me down double time. Fortunately, Jason’s not an idiot, and he never holds me to being my formerly chatty self, and equally doesn’t expect me to read Tim’s notes until I’m good and ready. But since I don’t have the heart to let him see me — his big brother, to whom he admitted to looking up to once upon a time — so grossly weakened and diminished, I smile, talk, and cope. Bottom line — _my_ fault his visits mop the floor with me. 

“Hey, Dickie,” he said when I opened my eyes, both heavy, one blotted out completely, the other blurred. 

I rubbed at my eyes, and when one tolerably cleared and the preceding events of the day caught up with me, I found I couldn’t even manage a nod in Jason’s direction. My body felt stalled and heavy, as though held under a magic spell — or as though the aphasia now affected my movements and responses, too. 

“Bad day?” he asked, leaning toward me, laying his book down on the nightstand. 

I still couldn’t respond, just lying there, gazing at the window, noticing that it had begun to snow outside. The only focus I could maintain was on my breathing. In, out, in, out. All involuntary, reflexive, passive. Breath rolling through my lungs, out of my nostrils. 

“That… was probably a dumb question,” Jason said with a good-natured chuckle. “You want me to bounce?” 

That got the engine to turn over somewhat. I shook my head. When I spoke, my voice was a low, weak hum. “You g-g-g-g-gonna be m-mad if I don’t t-t-t — chat much?” 

He smiled. “Dude, it’s fine. I don’t expect you to talk, you know that. And I’m not gonna be mad if you boot me outta here, either. Okay?” 

I gazed at him, wondering how not to sound desperate in what I wished to say, and then figuring to hell with it. 

“No. I d-d-don’t want you to g-go,” I said. 

“All right,” he said. “Then I’ll stay.” 

My eyes burned. “Th-th… Thank you. Jason.” 

“Sure.” 

I nodded, and felt a lump forming in my throat. It mushroomed, aching and choking me, when he reached over and grasped my hand. 

“You sure you’re okay, man?” he asked. 

I was still and quiet a moment. 

Then I shook my head, forced to honesty when the lump cracked and gave way to more tears. 

“You want to talk about it?” 

Again, I shook my head, just holding his hand, letting the tears come. 

“Well, that’s all right,” he said, squeezing my fingers. “Listen — you don’t have to be okay all the time. Especially around me. Keeping that fake smile on has to be more exhausting than this, anyway.” 

I snorted a little through the tears. “Yeah.” 

“Hey.” 

I wiped my eyes with my free hand, and looked over at him. 

“You didn’t stutter there,” he pointed out. 

I snorted again, and just sat for a while, hand-in-hand with my brother, half-listening to the television. 

“Artemis is on her way up,” said Jason after a time, checking his cell when it pinged. “Want me to hang, or you want some one-on-one time?” 

“You can h-hang,” I said. 

He grinned. “And there you only stuttered once.” 

“I’ll t-take it,” I said, giving him a half-smile. 

Artemis turned up with some pho, looking gorgeous as ever in her work duds — all soft cashmere and tailored slacks that gave her legs for days and dangling earrings. I know she dropped a penny or two on her new wardrobe and hairstyle specifically to be taken seriously at work, something that makes me smile (I find it hard to believe that anyone could fail to take a force of nature like Artemis Lian Crock seriously.) 

“So where’s the c-catwalk?” I cracked goodnaturedly, attempting to stuff my noisy internal turmoil. “You kn-know I’d be eating out of the p-p-palm of your h-hand if I worked with you.” 

“Oh, pfffttt, you’ve always eaten out of the palm of my hand, anyway,” she huffed, grinning and waving a hand. I warmed a little at the blush that colored her cheeks. “You’re the goodlooking one, stud.” She bent and kissed my forehead, asked how I was, and then handed my soup to me. 

It (of course) didn’t take her long to pick up on my upset, and although she immediately probed me to talk, I held my tongue and sifted through my soup, saddened at how tedious just eating had become with only half my teeth. I tried to focus on the fact that at least _this_ much would be fixed soon. Dental implants would have me looking, and eating, good as new, so the maxillofacial surgeon told me at my consultation. It didn’t help that I felt pretty sick, a common enough thing nowadays. 

And… illness and tedium aside, I hate eating. 

It sounds strange to hate or resent eating, even when there’s physical difficulty involved, but eating leads to other things that I can’t stand even to think about. There’s nothing quite like waking up caked in shit and then having a pair of nice-looking nurses strip and clean you. 

Eventually, I placed the soup on the nightstand, no longer interested in it, not wanting to be lying there in my own mess again any time soon, sickened and embarrassed, determining to make things easier on the medical staff — and if that means foregoing a lot of meals until the whole _mental training_ business finally takes and I can be counted on to deal with uncomfortable functions myself, well, it means foregoing them. And I’m going to stand by that. 

Artemis, of course, asked why I wasn’t eating. I gave her the best closed-lipped smile I could manage through the lump that remained in my throat. 

“G-g-g-got my ass h-h-h-handed to me at PT earlier,” I said, not entirely untruthful. “N-n-not f-f-f-feeling well.” I sighed. “J-j-jeez. Sp-spit it out, Stuttering B-b-bill.” 

She rubbed my arm and grinned. “He thrusts his fists against the posts…” 

Again, I smiled. “And st-still insists he sees the gh-ghosts.” 

“Better,” she pronounced. “You’ll get there, babe.” 

The rest of the evening passed mostly in quiet, with sporadic flurries of conversation that were amicable, but half-hearted, given I just couldn’t bring myself to join in, even just to pay attention. I tried, but my thoughts drifted, retreating into the poisonous mist that clouded my mind. And on the edges of that mist was the dispiriting knowledge that Artemis’ departure was incoming soon — and I didn’t want her to leave. I’ve never liked keeping her from our daughter in the evenings, but every visit just seems too short. 

Eventually, Jason got up and left, leaving me alone with my girlfriend, the television playing host to what would normally be a perfectly interesting nature documentary about the migratory patterns of Great White sharks, but I was no more able to concentrate on that than I was on the intermittent attempts to converse. 

I gave talking up as a dead end and just lay in silence beside where she sat, assimilating the events of the morning and the horrible, nauseating inrush of something akin to pre-acceptance, thinking that none of this is what I ever pictured for my life — and it is _definitely_ not what I pictured for hers. 

And before this morning, I _couldn’t_ picture it for either of us, however each day happened to unfold and make it apparent that guess what, _this_ state of things is here to stay. I was so determined to _fix_ everything, to overcome this phase in our lives, and go back to _normal._ Normal being when I was, and could be, Artemis’ biggest cheerleader, her number one fan — and back it up. Always behind her, always beside her, cheering her on, bolstering her, supporting her. 

What a load of self-important garbage. 

I’d sent Lawrence Crock off to prison, thinking to myself that pride comes before the fall. 

Isn’t that the fucking truth. And it held for me every bit as much as it did for him. I know that, lying here now. I got careless. I got cocky. I was totally conceited. I was vainglorious, even, painfully sanctimonious. And I spread myself too thin because I innately thought I was invincible and righteously on top of the world, and I sure as hell didn’t watch my back like I should have, stupidly, vainly thinking that I already had everything all figured out. Nope, I put myself at risk like a complete dipshit because I inwardly believed — legitimately — that I was untouchable and _deserved_ my good fortune. 

I don’t have any memory of what happened, nor do I even know who actually pulled the trigger, since no one seems to want to tell me all the sordid details just yet — but the shotgun wound to my abdomen, now a hideous, deformed network of purple, lurid, pitted scarring, indicates enough. 

Pride comes before the fall. 

And here I am. Fallen. 

I lay in silence during Artemis’ evening visit, thinking that, wanting to reach out to her, no longer knowing how. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she said eventually, sparing me the trouble. “You’ve been… I don’t know, quieter than normal.” 

I sighed. “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” she said, laying a hand on my forearm. “Just… You look… I don’t know, distraught. Did something happen?” 

I felt my chest starting its shivering, my throat starting its burning. 

I held the tears back, and shook my head. “I’m t-t-t-traught. Just… just tired.” 

“You sure that’s all?” She frowned knowingly at me, a slight arch to one brow, a dubious look in her warm, gray gaze. 

Seven months lost or no, brain damage or no, changes or no — she still knows me, even if I no longer know myself. It was somehow comforting in that moment to know that much, at least. 

Which begged the terrible question — do I still know her? 

I was quiet, and then shook my head. 

“Well, what is it?” she probed, giving my arm a gentle press with her fingers. 

I didn’t respond right away, staring down at the unmoving shells of my legs, in relief beneath the blanket. 

Finally, I looked over at her. 

“N-n-nothing,” I lied. “Umm… Can I, uh… can I just have a h-hug?” 

She smiled, an expression that said, _That’s what this is about?_ as she scooted from her chair to the edge of the bed. “Of course you can, Dickie.” 

She readily pulled me to her, her arms warm and solid, the scent of her lotion infusing my nostrils. With a profound sense of waiting catharsis, I went all in on that embrace, pressing my face to her shoulder, resting there, grasping her about her slim waist. A new lump bulged painfully in my throat as I choked on the rekindled urge to sob. I’d done enough of that already, I figured, and if Artemis was able to keep her chin up through this, I owed it to her to do the same. She wasn’t going to see me cry. She wasn’t going to see me fold. No, thank you, ma’am. 

She held me all the way up until visiting hours ended, twenty solid minutes later, not once pulling away, not asking questions, not even shifting positions, minus to rub my back or stroke my hair once in a while. And when eight o’clock rolled around to indicate the end of visiting hours, only then did she draw back. 

“You going to be okay?” she asked, holding both my hands in hers. 

I nodded. “I’ll be all g-g-g —” I stopped when the grinding started up, and settled on a different word. “Gravy. Go home and get some s-s-s-sleep, Tiger.” 

She smiled. “You sure? I’m guessing I can stay if I ask — I mean, it’s not like your foster grandpa owned this hospital once or anything.” 

I smiled back, not wanting to keep her from Mary. “Nah.” 

She inclined her head. “Dick. You don’t hug someone for twenty minutes because everything’s hunky-dory. What’s going on?” 

I shook my head. “Just n-n-needed it today, I guess. M-missed you earlier.” 

She skeptically arched a brow. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying. Out with it.” 

I gave her a smile, and squeezed her hand. “Hmm-mm. Hug M-mary for me.” 

She looked unconvinced, but she sighed, and thumbed my cheek as she rose. 

“You call me if you need me, okay?” she said. “I don’t care what time it is.” 

I nodded. “I w-w-will.” 

“Good. I’m going to hold you to that. Love you.” She bent, kissed my forehead, squeezed my fingers, and was out the door even as I told her I loved her, too — and tried damn hard not to cry. 

I couldn’t let her know my thoughts, couldn’t show that weakness to her. It wasn’t _fair_ to her. She’d been burdened enough. 

So had the others, I thought, my stomach lurching. Bruce, Alfred, Jason, Tal, Stephanie the speech therapist, the nurses, the doctors — all of them. 

_Is_ this _what… what it’ll always be? My life?_ I wondered in panicky dismay as Artemis made her way to the door. _A burden on others? A problem? Something they have to deal with? Some chore or responsibility or obligation? One-sided and thankless and exhausting?_

I held everything in, my chest shaking with the effort. 

The second the door shut, _then_ I cried until I puked. 

And lying here now by myself, watching the snow spiraling with increasing velocity outside, the tears come back to the full, fast and hot, streaking over my cheeks and dropping itchily onto my neck, chest, and shoulders. I won’t have any fluid left in my body come morning at this rate. I’m cold to shivering, but unable to comfortably bundle up, considering that I still get pain drips and hydration IVs and antispasmodics at night (meaning I look a bit like an oversized porcupine, stuck with all these needles and tubes as I am.) Snot runnels over and sticks to the cannula, which I use at night for oxygen. The heart monitor speeds up next to me, the bleeps coming faster with every passing second, as the frantic sensation of scrambling desolation takes hold. 

It’s not unusual for me to cry at night. Nights are my worst time, often finding me somewhere between sleeping and waking, unable to hold onto sleep for overly long, and even less able to hold onto thoughts outside of nebulous, overpowering rushes of fear and confusion. Without Artemis’ soothing presence to anchor me, to remind me of where it is I’m going and what I’m trying to achieve, the emotions run amok, condensing and taking over in a dense, black mass, clouding my awareness until it funnels down into some murky otherworld of sleeplessness, terror, and despair. 

I know the nurses on the graveyard shift hear me cry. Occasionally, on nights not so busy, one will come in and sit with me, listen to me as I sob my way through the mire of discouragement and fear. I appreciate them more than I can comfortably say in words, these nocturnal angels with their degrees of separation that make me feel safe opening up to them without hiding how I truly feel in these hopeless moments. I’ve begged them not to tell my family that I cry myself to sleep most nights, that sometimes I feel dispirited and beaten, that I’ll always be a burden on my loved ones, that I’ll _never_ make substantive progress. They’ve promised not to, and so far, have kept that promise. 

But sitting here as I sob harder even than normal, feeling the overpowering strain of these last awful weeks as it _finally_ catches up with and overtakes me like a stampede of furious elephants — all the while screaming in resounding voices that I _won’t_ get better, I’m _not_ going anywhere, there’s _nothing_ to accomplish, _this_ is to be the way of things, and there’s no more denying it, it’s time to face things as they are, Dickieboy — I think I might just break that promise myself. 

I catch myself thinking on, identifying, regarding myself on the sublevels of my thoughts as Nightwing — as I always do — and with a sickening rush, I realize that there _is_ no Nightwing. 

There is no Flying Grayson, either, though, is there? No. I’ve joined my uncle now — clipped, defeated, eternally caged. 

I’m not even _Dick_ fucking Grayson, I think wildly — he who was so identifiable by his physical prowess and talent, by how his body moved, by his stupid pretty boy face. And _all_ of that is gone. Dick Grayson is gone. Grace, talent, looks — all gone. Things I inadvertently took for granted, even if I superfluously feared their loss in my nightmares. 

And they are, all of them, all that has defined my life and made me who I am — no more. Nil, moot, zero. Everything is gone. _I_ am gone. I can’t get up. I can’t move. I can’t walk. I can’t _fly._

And by _far_ worst of all is what all of those _cannots_ painfully implicate — I can’t extend my helping hand to others. Not only has every inch of who I am been inextricably bound up in my physical capabilities from the time I was born — my physicality is how I express myself, how I identify myself — but it’s what I bank on a hundred percent to help people. And _that_ has characterized my whole life, even before the days of truth, justice, and the Bat Family way. My dad was one of the most generous, heroic, courageous people I ever knew, and he taught me to be the same. Could we, ablebodied as we were and capable of rolling up our sleeves and _working_ to bring aid to those less fortunate or victimized, look the other way when others were in need of _exactly_ the kind of help we could give? Dad was always the first to intervene in a quarrel or a mugging, to leap into a river to rescue someone’s fallen child, to squirrel his way up a tree to save a kitten. There wasn’t a single McDonald’s he didn’t drop some change into the donation box for the Ronald McDonald House, either, and nor was there one homeless person he didn’t give a few bucks to — even when we came from limited means ourselves. My dad was the first to tell me that a real hero is one who helps those who can’t help themselves, and _not_ for the personal glory. 

When Bruce took me in, and introduced me to the life, it opened up a whole new world of possibility — I could now don an entire life built on my physical prowess to proactively safeguard innocents from the trauma and heartbreak that I’d experienced and _so_ much more besides, not just entertain others with transient feats of acrobatics and bodily grace. And I had _means_ to help on other levels, as well. I _threw_ myself into it, the whole of myself with no percentage leftover, and never looked back. 

Dinah told me it was every bit as much my way of compensating, atoning for not being able to save my family, as it was honoring my father’s memory and what he taught me. I didn’t care if that was all it was. Helping others by applying my bodily capabilities to the task lent meaning, _real_ meaning, and what felt like _selfless_ meaning to a life that could quickly have lost all purpose and made a rapid descent into nihilism and escapism under the trauma and grief. 

If this is really, truly gone — and God, it _is —_ I know it is — I _have_ known — 

Who the _hell_ am I now? What _purpose_ is there for me? 

I can’t even go skip fucking rocks to try getting my head back on straight. 

_I can’t carry this on my own,_ my mind wails in a looping, psychotropic bellow while I bawl audibly in the beeping hum of the hospital room, _it’s breaking me, it’s killing me, even as I lie in this bed, I can_ feel _it —_

I glance at the bedside clock, which rests next to the well-known, well-loved, oft-studied photo of Mary, and the hospital issue phone. I don’t have a cell phone at the moment. 

It’s past two in the morning. It’s Saturday. Visiting hours don’t commence until eight. 

I can’t wait six hours, and God only knows if a nurse is free to come play therapist. Fuck visiting hours and fuck the fact that it’s late. Artemis said to call if I needed her, after all, and I _do_ need her. If I’m going to face this, I can’t do it on my own. Not this time. 

I reach for the phone. 


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

_Artemis_

“You still among the living over there?” 

I jerk back to awareness. I hadn’t even realized I’d drifted off. 

“Yeah, sorry,” I tell Jade, sighing and scrubbing a line of drool off my cheek. 

“Better look alive,” she says. “We’re about twelve minutes out.” 

I smack my cheeks a bit, assimilating the surge of adrenaline that rushes through my center, tingling into my heavy, fatigued limbs, reanimating them. 

“Here,” Jade says, plucking her half-full can of energy drink from the cup holder and extending it to me. 

“How can you drink this crap?” I ask, although I obligingly accept her proffering. I take a sip and a breath following. 

“I can drink that crap because I’m legally dead most days between work, work, other work, night work, Lian, and Roy,” Jade tells me with a smirk. “And no doubt I’m preaching to the choir, here.” 

I yawn with unintended perfect timing, and scrub the cobwebs from my eyes. With a pang, I think of Mary, and how she does much the same when she’s exhausted and fighting sleep. This cat nap I just took in the car with Jade behind the wheel is the first real, solid sleep I’ve gotten in weeks. 

I sigh. Torn, I look out the window, taking in the sight of the snowy trees as they pass by the car, fighting to convince myself that _this_ is the right place for me to be right now — investigating a murder that by all appearances is tied to my father in the snowy foothills surrounding Blüdhaven through a frigid, late season blizzard. I ought to be safe at home, I figure, bundled up cozily in bed, with my daughter slumbering nearby, the phone at hand in case Dick needs me at any point in the night. On a lot of internal levels staying in makes infinitely more sense. 

But such an opportunity to track down Sportsmaster like this one is rarely afforded — when Jade called, I knew I had to go. 

That aside, even if Dad wasn’t involved (and it’s going to take a lot to convince me otherwise), the murder remains personal. Deathstroke was the one killed. I would never say that I especially liked Slade Wilson — but we worked well together, and he had proven that he legitimately cared for his child (children, it turned out — two sons _and_ a daughter), automatic points in my book. Plus, I _do_ like and respect Joey very much. 

The evidence seems pretty cut and dry — Slade Wilson dead behind the abandoned shell factory that Crock was apprehended at, his skull looking a bit like Oberyn’s, signs of an impressive brawl. Sounds like Sportsmaster to any person who knows my father’s MO — and apparently, Dad’s not doing the sandbagging thing anymore. He must have recognized that getting old means he’s actually at a disadvantage now (la!) Jade and I aren’t the only ones on this investigative job, but if I want first dibs on Dad, and trust me, _I do,_ we have to haul ass to get to the finish line before anyone else does — and that includes the almighty Batman, the World’s Greatest Detective (yikes!) 

So… off to the foothills we go late on a Friday night, looking for a man named Willie Wintergreen, Slade’s driver — and the last man to see Wilson alive. Supposedly, he dropped Wilson off at the factory after hours, and then melted into thin air just before four quarts of his blood were found in an abandoned car off Interstate 70. Obviously, he was declared dead, wherever his body might have wound up… Which was, by my sister’s research, very much alive and in the hills surrounding Blüdhaven. Lucky for me, Jade is happy to seek sources of information that the good guys don’t think of — and she turned up Willie’s location through some con that owed her a favor. 

Wintergreen is in _deep_ hiding in these hills — as in, hunkered down after faking his death with some canned goods in a shack built in an off-limits nature preserve hiding. My guess? Not only did my father get to him, but Luthor, as well. While my father can be intimidating, I doubt he’d be able to cow Wintergreen _that_ much. Luthor, however, can always be counted on to put his money where his mouth is. 

(As an aside, speaking of that little weasel, Luthor took the first opportunity available to him to completely obliterate any evidence of nefarious deeds within his factory building — naturally. Meaning the colossally important metahuman roundup that resulted in my dad’s brief incarceration was a total bust. Infuriatingly, the end result was that it merely looked as though poor, put-upon, wubbie-destroyer-of-worlds Luthor was an unfortunate victim of circumstance, not even aware that criminals were having little hoedowns in the sublevels of his Smallville factory. A conveniently timed mass shit-canning occurred within the company — have to keep up appearances, right? Never mind the majority of these employees had families… Still. The League has the USB with a whole lot of suspicious documents on it, thanks to Dick, all of which are being translated now. Ha, ha!) 

I ruminate on everything involved in this mission, all of the info and all of the components, readying myself. I study the mask that rests on my lap, handling the openings etched into it, familiarizing myself with it. It’s seen three outings so far, and still I’m not quite accustomed to it. 

It was my mother’s, one she didn’t wear regularly. She really only donned it for super secret work. Not the most recognizable, as such, and altered to further suit my own needs of secrecy — but it carries with it the same persona, the same alias. 

Huntress. 

It just felt right to furtively adopt my mother’s alter-ego to mete out the justice long overdue my father. The lifelong crime spree that he exacted on our family really began with her, I’ve often thought. It should end with her, as well. 

Although my mom assured me there was a softer side to him once, I know that aspect of Lawrence Crock receded long before Jade and I were born, giving way to the cruelty and oppression that were all we knew of our father. I still feel some regret that I never saw the gentler, more endearing sides of him, the ones my mom promised me existed, even if now they’re ancient history. But I can’t forget the first substantive, tangible crime he committed against us — when he, for all intents and purposes, ended Huntress. 

And I will _never_ be anything but spurred to action over what he did to Dick. My daughter’s father. The man I love. 

And now, Deathstroke — bloodlessly leaving Joseph and Slade’s other two children without the father that loved and cared for them. 

I grit my teeth as my resolve and spirits rise. For as worried as I am about my boyfriend, for as much as I miss our daughter, for as guilty as I feel lying to my mother, for as badly as I’d rather have this over with and be snuggling with her and Mary on the couch marathoning _The X-Files —_ I know this is where I need to be. 

This is _so_ different than undercover missions, fake deaths, vigilantism, secret identities, I think as I lock my fingers in the eye openings of the mask. This is malfeasance, deception with the darkest intentions, the premeditation of an egregious crime. Patricide. 

And the recalcitrant, tight-lipped guy Jade’s con buddy directed us to in our investigation and search for Wintergreen, the one she and I beat to a pulp to tell us that _he_ was the one who assisted Wintergreen in faking his death. After some… _encouragement,_ we learned more specifically that he took Willie’s blood over time, staged the death for him, got Willie his fake documentation for when he planned on starting a new life, and then sent him on his merry way… to the very cabin we seek. Oh, and by the way, sir, could you perchance share with us the address of Willie’s new appropriated domicile? Oh — _slam —_ thank you very much, you’ve been very helpful. 

It’s one thing to knock a violent, brazenly evil offender around a bit. I’d even call it satisfying. But it’s another to completely manhandle a guy with no record of violence, no real criminality beyond assisting ex-cons who are on the lam or trying to clean up their acts. 

…Still. I have it on good authority that Batman’s not above breaking fingers and making lesser people scream to get info. 

Damned if the pressure inherent in this endeavor isn’t a horse of an entirely different color, and beneath it, I can feel myself changing. My DNA and molecules shifting in spite of myself as I bounce from wishing to fight toward becoming the person I _want_ to be, and to realizing what person I’m actually becoming. 

But the endgame means my family will be _safe,_ I tell myself — and not just my own family, but so many _other_ families, all across the world, the galaxy, the entire universe. If I have to sacrifice my personal ideals for a time to see that done… Well, so be it, I guess. 

I lean my head back, warring with myself. Since I had Mary, there’s the eternal sense of feeling torn — as though no matter where I am or what I’m doing, it’s neither the right place nor thing, and I find myself pulled in oh, _so_ many directions, each and every limb tugged this way and that, a feeling enormously compounded when Dick woke up last month. Even so, I suppose tonight is as good a time as any to go chasing leads — my mother thinks that Jade and I are attending a self-help seminar that will go late into the night in Blüdhaven, and she’s taking care of both children, Lian _and_ Mary, and yes. I feel terrible deceiving and taking advantage of my mother like this. I wonder if Dick were released from the hospital and at _home_ now, if I’d still be here, in this car, with Jade. 

I lean my forehead on my hand. March 27th, and Dick _still_ hasn’t been cleared to come home since waking up on Valentine’s Day last month. I’m not sure _when,_ exactly, I expected him to be released from Mercy, but I definitely thought he’d have been released a lot sooner than this. I let go a resentful sigh. 

I miss him — really, really _miss him_ — when I’m home or at work, always counting the minutes until I can visit him next, feeling an insatiable need to _be_ there with him, after seven months of unconsciousness and separation. I missed him every second that he was between worlds — I miss him especially powerfully right now. 

_Less than ten hours, Artemis,_ I reassure myself, _and you’ll see him. Less than ten hours._

Selfishly, I hope that he’ll be up when I arrive at eight for visiting hours tomorrow — the sight of his slumbering form unfailingly lights an irrational panic in the pit of my gut and tears all my wounds, barely skinned over, open and raw all over again. Unless told otherwise, I _have_ to shake him awake, not merely because he’s asked me to (I melted when he told me he never wanted to miss my visits, and so to please-thank you-have a nice day wake him up), but to lay to rest my own fears that he’s dead to the world for keeps this time. I don’t feel especially great or proud, wresting him from his direly needed sleep like this, particularly since he wears out fast these days, but the anxiety that comes now with the image of him in repose always spurs me to action. 

When I sit with him, normally feeding him comestibles other than the catastrophic soft foods diet issued by the hospital (frankly, the stuff of nightmares) and chatting him up like an old yenta, I conversely find that I keenly miss Mary — not out of wanting to leave Dick to be with her or feeling torn between the two, but out of _longing_ to have her with us, wanting them both with me at once, wishing to have my family all together in the same room. 

Dick hasn’t even been permitted to _meet_ Mary yet, predominantly because of “immunosuppression issues.” I just don’t get how he can be worked to the bone in physical therapy every freaking day with these same supposed immune system problems, but not be permitted to be around his daughter — like how on earth is _that_ balanced? 

“Artemis, I know it’s frustrating for you _and_ him,” Thompkins told me placatingly just this morning, “but you’ve mentioned you’ve had Mary in day care recently. And those places are _crawling_ with germs, no matter how clean they’re kept — even more so than the gym areas here — and Dick’s systems are still pretty weak. You know that flu going around has had a death toll just in Gotham? Bringing Mary in now before his counts are a little more encouraging would be like _asking_ him to get sick — and honestly, one infection at this point could be extremely serious.” 

Thompkins is lucky I like her as much as I do. What’s the merit in her reasoning, beyond wrapping Dick up in bubble wrap and caution tape and never letting him leave his hospital bed (which, case in point, why is he able to undergo PT, but not meet his daughter?) 

Still — her words have stuck, and I haven’t snuck Mary into the hospital to meet her father like I might have any other time and under any other doctor’s decree, even if the heartsick, yearning expressions on Dick’s face when he looks at her photos, FaceTimes with her and my mom, and listens to the updates I give him cause my resolve to falter, and for however much I long to make up for lost time with my family. At least Thompkins has assured us both that he should be able to truly see her soon enough, although she still can’t give us a definitive timeline (grrr.) 

“You know, Arty, it’s not too late to turn around,” my sister says, glancing over at me, noticing my internal angst (and I’ll be the first to admit I’m not generally the most subtle about angsting.) “Wintergreen’s not going anywhere — he’s spooked and in hiding, not to mention this place looks like the abominable snowman blew a load all over it. Meaning One-Eyed Willie won’t be leaving his little hunting cabin for a good, long while. And you need to have your head in the game a hundred percent, here — Slade wouldn’t have hired this guy as his driver if he were an incompetent moron, and if someone of his presumed caliber’s been scared into heading for the hills, he might give us some real trouble when we come knocking.” 

“Well, Dad’s whereabouts are definitely time sensitive, so trust me — my head’s in the game,” I assure her. I pass a hand over my face, and tighten my ponytail. “Or at least, it _will_ be. Let’s just get this done.” 

“Something’s up,” she observes cannily. “What is it?” 

I sigh, considering as I gaze out the window. 

“It’s Dick,” I tell her honestly. “He was just… I don’t know, he was acting a little off before I left the hospital earlier, I guess.” 

“Ah,” says Jade. “I figured. Listen, though, Arty — the guy was out for seven months and woke up to find out he’s blind in one eye, missing half his teeth, can’t walk, missed his daughter’s birth, and not to mention the… what is it, aphasia?” She shakes her head. “He’s _bound_ to be a little off once in a while.” 

I roll my eyes. “Well, duh. How very wet the water is. Just… I don’t know. Something about this was different.” I shred a hangnail with my teeth. “…I’m worried about him.” 

“Hmph — speaking of how very wet the water is. I’d be concerned if you weren’t,” Jade tells me. “I’d even go so far as to call you an incompetent partner.” 

I shrug, and hook the Huntress mask over my face, dwelling a moment on the events of the evening. 

Dick had been extremely withdrawn when I went to see him earlier — even by his present standards, which are admittedly _far_ less bubbly these days. The bad stutter and occasional inability to articulate the words in his head symptomatic of the clinical “atypical aphasia” he’s dealt with since coming to make communication difficult at times. And while this variant of aphasia is preferable to what doctors _thought_ he would suffer, it’s still hardly what I’d call a picnic, as he strains to form his words, going red in the face, clenching his fists, undergoing endless false starts that can make just an observation about the weather an hour-long affair. He’s explained that the worst part of this — the aphasia, I mean — is that the words are _there,_ perfectly formed in his mind, but getting them from his brain and out of his mouth is a whole other story. For example, he referred to a bottle of water as a can once — explaining that although he knew the word he needed, he couldn’t _speak_ it, so he settled on “can” to get his point across without stuttering for ten minutes. I know how frustrating the whole thing is for him, so I don’t press him to talk if he doesn’t feel like battling his symptoms, which are only partially improved by the medication he was just put on and the speech and cognitive therapy he’s undergone thus far. But he’s always at least _engaged,_ expressing interest in interaction, partaking in conversations if a bit passively, deliberately speaking less than he used to. 

This evening, though, he was… well, pretty dead silent. I don’t think he spoke more than two sentences while Jason and I were there, having dinner in his room at the hospital. He just kind of lay there, dully gazing off into space, not eating, seeming distracted, his whole demeanor weighted and dark. And given his pallid skin, flushed cheeks, and red-rimmed eyes, it _really_ looked like he’d been crying — and at that, an awful lot. Although Alfred mentioned to me that Dick had had a tough morning, he didn’t give any solid, descriptive details as to why — only that physical therapy had apparently been hard on him. I figured it must have been, given that Dick slept all through my habitual weekday lunchtime visit. But a tiring morning at PT didn’t account for his desolate, taciturn disposition when I returned to the hospital after work (I visit Dick twice a day during the week — on my lunch hours, then after work every evening until visiting hours are over. I also go see him every Saturday and Sunday morning.) I’ve seen Dick tired — and this was _not_ tired. 

My suspicions piqued, I probed him — unsuccessfully — to talk. 

The thing is that he’s exhibited a truly _remarkable_ equanimity in facing the catastrophic extent of his devastating injuries — so remarkable, in fact, that I’ve actually been significantly taken aback. I expected at least _some_ outwardly expressed level of adjustment beyond his initial reaction to all of the news that waited for him on the other side. But he’s maintained his sanguine, optimistic mien, approaching the new ardor of his daily life with positivity, a closed-lipped smile, and the assertion that he’s “got this.” The nurses have all complimented his resilience, the doctors have lauded his strength and spirit, and so have I — but I’ve wondered at his seeming optimism. I’m sure Bruce, Alfred, and Jason have, too. 

Still, I figured, Dick has adapted to just about everything life has ever thrown at him, and done it with the same strength and tenacity that he’s exhibited since February fourteenth. Should this really be any different? 

Here’s the thing, though — I _know_ Dick. And there’s something about him, a core characteristic of his, that I can’t ignore my own knowledge of any longer — when he’s struggling, _really_ struggling, he will _never_ let us or anyone else know. Not until it comes bursting out of him by some involuntary prompt. 

And I think it might have started its bursting earlier this evening. Now I wonder, have I _sensed_ the subtext — all the little undercurrents of something darker, more nefarious and recusant, that twist and turn in perceptible eddies beneath his smiling facade? Have I _ignored_ them because I’d selfishly rather believe that Dick is adjusting and adapting, and soon he’ll come home and we can for Christ’s sake at last be a family? 

He asked for a hug after Jason left — just a soft, somewhat uncertain, “Can I have a hug?” and when I readily reached out to him, he held onto me for _twenty minutes —_ pressing his face into my shoulder and gripping me about my waist, pressing himself as closely to me as he physically could. To my increasing alarm, I could _feel_ him shaking, the tight, strung-up set of his shoulders, his uneven breathing. Dick’s never been one to balk at receiving physical comfort or even seeking it — but like this? I braced myself for it, fully expecting the dam to finally break, for the walls and levees to at last come crashing down. 

But even when I released him as visiting hours came to their end and prodded him again, he _still_ wouldn’t open up. 

I left the hospital frazzled, and spent my evening teatime habit at home with my mom and Mary in an introspective state of existential conflict before I gave my daughter a bath, got her in her pajamas, read to her and put her to bed… and then met Jade to track down Wintergreen. 

Ha! What an evening — kiss your baby good night, and then leave to rough up some guy you’ve never met for answers about your sleazy, transient father. 

And now, I just can’t stop thinking about it, turning it over and over in my mind, battling myself on why I’m here. I really probably shouldn’t have left, I think, and start fretting at the hangnail. Speaking of being an incompetent partner — I’d say the shoe fits, along with those of Less Than Stellar Mother and Ignoble Human Waste-Away. 

“Earth to Artemis, your landing gear is down,” Jade says, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, jarring me out of my thoughts. 

“Oh, sorry, what?” I say. 

“Like I was _trying_ to say, this probably won’t be the most sensitive question to ask…” Jade frowns, and taps the steering wheel again. 

“Huh. It’s not like you to be too concerned about whether or not your questions might insult someone’s finer sensibilities,” I chuff in an effort to lighten the at once somber mood. “Should I brace for the end of the world?” 

She snorts. “What can I say — motherhood’s caused me to turn over a new leaf.” 

I cluck. “Yep. End of the world.” 

She chuckles. “Anyway. Does Dick know about Deathstroke?” 

I shake the heavy feeling that comes over me. 

“No,” I reply. “Or at least I haven’t told him, and if he knows, he hasn’t let on. But he _really_ doesn’t need to be worrying about that right now. And he doesn’t need to be worrying about the Joker, Harley, Luthor, Dad, what his USB’s turned up, any of it. Not even Hank.” 

She nods. “Amen to that, sis. He ought to be worrying about himself and _only_ himself right now.” 

I shake my head and half-smile. “Well, good luck with that one. You know Dickie, _self_ isn’t really in his vocabulary.” 

“He needs to fix that if he wants to get through this,” Jade observes wryly. “And… here we are.” 

Jade parks the car a ways off the road, hiding it effectively enough in the clawing, leafless fingers of thick shrubbery, and situates her own mask, the cat’s smile an eerie glow in the darkness, illuminated in the diffuse effulgence of the snow. 

Time for a hike — and it’s a long one over icy, root-eaten forest floor, hills, and rocks, all through closely grown trees. It’s at least twenty minutes before we find what we’re looking for. 

Wintergreen’s cabin is, in fact, a reinforced, one-room shack constructed of metal sheeting painted a dull brown, covered over with branches and pine boughs and clotted piles of dead leaves and detritus beneath the wispy veil of snow. It would be easy to overlook if you weren’t, in fact, seeking it — which is, of course, Willie’s intention. The gunk caked all over the hovel isn’t accidental. 

“So are we just kind of knocking on his door?” I ask. “Do this the quick and messy way?” 

Jade looks over at me, and although I can’t see her face, I can pretty much _hear_ her smirking. “I’d rather call the proscribed method the Cheshire way.” 

“Please tell me that doesn’t involve busting in through the poor guy’s window.” 

“Worry not, sis,” she says. “It just means a nice, forthright knock on his door, the quick and messy way, as you called it. You ought to get used to the violent approach, anyway.” 

“No thanks,” I grumble. “I’m still sweating the last one.” 

We worm from the undergrowth, silently making our furtive way to the cabin, seeking its front door. 

Movement in the treeline catches my eye, causing my head to swivel on my neck, and Jade to draw up. 

“There,” she hisses, “he’s rabbiting. He saw us. Must be even more paranoid than we thought —” 

Having found the right moment, I’m sprinting after the retreating form of the man even before Jade finishes speaking. She falls into step at my shoulder, then murmurs, “I’m breaking left.” 

She does, as I break right, beating a path between tree trunks a ways off from where the man (presumably Wintergreen) makes a bid for freedom through the woods. The terrain is uneven and difficult to find sure footing on in its frozen state, but given the built in traction soles on both of our pairs of utility boots and collective experience in this sort of thing, we stand a chance at catching him. 

Jade sprints ahead of him, flanking him to the fore. He skids to a halt, then makes an adroit split to the right. I skid to right my direction, pounding hard after him, my sister doing the same. 

The chase goes on a while — darting in and out of the trees, nearly losing him in the darkness, switching to nightvision in order not to. Wintergreen surprises me when he takes a flying leap over the sharp face of a steep hillside, expertly tumbling down the embankment. I slide down it on my butt like a kid on a sled, heedless of the wetness and cold under my rear. Willie is heavier than I am, and although I was closing the gap before we reached the decline, he reaches the bottom first. 

I stay as hard on his heels as I possibly can, avoiding branches overhead and trunks of trees and rocks and roots that protrude from the icy blanket of late season snow. I catch sight of Jade, deftly navigating the trees overhead. I smile with satisfaction, and as if on cue, she overtakes him from above by fleet use of her speedline, and then drops to the ground ahead of him. He comically wheels to a hault, about to make another break for it — but I can see it. He’s tiring and slowing and I’m close enough to do what I have planned. I’m already reaching for what I need. 

I heave a bola at his feet before he can make his dash through the trees, satisfied when the tethers jerk about his ankles, dropping him spectacularly to the snowy ground. 

“Willie Wintergreen, I take it,” Jade says, barely even winded (twat), walking over to where he lay twisting on the ground, attempting to make his way to his abdomen. 

“Take it easy, Willie, we just want to talk,” I tell him, kindly enough, but my disposition shifts when he finishes his flip to the belly and starts a swift battle crawl. I frantically leap atop his back, not about to let this prize fish wriggle to freedom, and wrest his arms down so that Jade can bind his wrists. 

“Like I said,” I tell him, sharply now. “We just want to talk. You want to be rude about it, I’ll happily get rude right back.” 

He huffs for air, and shakes his head. When he speaks, his tone, even through the breathlessness, is perceptibly exasperated, almost as though he can’t believe we’re here. “I have no intention of getting rude, thank you kindly. Not with you, anyway.” 

“You seem happy enough to run off and play tag,” Jade says. _“That’s_ pretty rude, considering we came all the way out here to talk to you.” 

“Sorry,” he says, and coughs, “but I value my own life a hell of a lot more than indulging your sense of convenience.” 

“You say that, and yet you were pretty easy to catch,” Jade gibes. 

“Yes, well, I’m an old man, young lady,” Wintergreen says. “This weather is hell on my joints. But speaking of that, now you’ve got me here, you ought to just be glad I’m as old as I am and as such have old school values.” 

“Such as?” I ask. 

He smiles. I flip the switch to dismiss the nightvision lenses and opt to toggle the light on my wrist band, pointing it impolitely into his face. 

“Well, let’s just say I don’t hit women,” he says, his breath mostly recovered. He squints in the glare. 

“Oh. How noble of you,” I say. “Maybe you should rethink that sentiment, since I’m happy to take a whack at you if you don’t answer my questions with a hundred percent honesty.” 

He sighs. “Listen, girl — you don’t know what it is you’re getting into, here. You don’t want to be touching any of this with a sixty-foot pole. _Any_ of it. Turn around and leave. Not just for my sake, but yours.” Even in the beam from the flashlight, his gaze intensifies. 

“Again. How noble. Listen, Willie — we’re comfortably aware of the situation at hand. It’s not like we don’t have our own resources. I mean, we found you — and you’re supposed to be dead, last I checked. Four quarts of blood found in an abandoned car dead. But… here you are, and _we… found… you.”_ I take hold of the restraints around his wrists. I’m not wild about resorting to inflicting pain for info, but it’s effective and quick, at least, and often spares _worse_ bodily harm that might crop up later — reference point, the poor false documents guy. I ought to send a gift basket to his room at RABE with compensation for his medical bills. (And again. Critical intel on Batman indicating he breaks the occasional finger. It’s… forgivable. Ish. Right?) “You can’t call us stupid, old man. And you can’t _think_ of us as such, either.” 

To my surprise, Willie smiles — the expression seeming genuine, admiring, even. 

“And _I’m_ not stupid, either, young lady,” he says. “That’s the Huntress mask — Paula Crock’s, even if it’s changed a bit. And I know damn well that little pussy cat over there is none other than her daughter, Jade Nguyen. If I had to guess, just by association, you’re Artemis Crock. Otherwise known as Tigress.” 

I look up at Jade. 

“Well,” she says dryly. “This one’s the brightest bulb in the tanning bed — which might be a problem.” 

Wintergreen chuckles. “Well, you don’t need to worry. I’m not about to break my silence and reveal myself to the big bads to complain you girls were here harassing me.” 

“And the big bads are…?” Jade asks, kneeling down. The hilt of one sai glints in the diffuse half-light. 

“I’m not going to say,” he says. “Sorry. Look, I respect you girls, but I respect — and like — my life a lot better. And I start talking, here, and any of this by some colossal coincidence gets back to them, I’m a dead man.” He pauses, and smirks. “Well. Dead for real and for keeps, anyway.” 

“Well, that’s fair,” I tell him. “We’ll let the good guys deal with the big bads, deal?” 

“Sure, but… if you’re not after info on them, why is it you’re here, then?” asks Wintergreen. “It’s a lot of determination, finding me, if you’re not in it out of interest in intergalactic security.” 

“Well, you’ve been pretty savvy up until now,” Jade observes. “Got any other ideas of why we might be here?” 

Wintergreen smiles wryly. “It seems a little obvious, but I’ll bring it up, anyway. You want to know if I know something about your father.” 

“Bingo,” Jade says. “So… do you have anything for us, or do we chuck you in your shanty, douse it gas, and dance around the bonfire?” 

“Jeez, Chesh, try decaf,” I say. 

“Well, why are you looking for him?” asks Willie. “Is it for information, backup, work, backdated child support payments…?” 

“Our business with our father is just that — ours,” I state evenly. “Listen — we just want to know if you have any idea of where Crock might be. And if he had anything to do with Slade Wilson’s death. Like I said. We’ll leave the big bads to the good guys.” 

“You _are_ the good guys, Tigress,” he says, then looks off, as though thinking. 

There’s a moment of silence, punctuated by the occasional hum of wind or tittering animal, the shifting branches overhead. 

Finally, he sighs. 

“Look,” Willie says. “I’m not… wild about running afoul of Sportsmaster. Wouldn’t say I’m wetting my drawers over him, per se, but I’d rather not run into him in a dark alley if I can avoid it, either.” He shakes his head. “Guy’s gone off the deep end since he got out of the clink.” 

“That’s putting it mildly,” I remark, thinking about the violent visit my father paid to my house some months before. “But I take it he’s not the only reason you’re hiding out in the sticks like the Unabomber?” 

He shakes his head. “No. I’m hiding because Slade had access to information that was… pretty explosive. Global, galactic, universal levels of explosive. Given I’m an affiliate — and confidant — of Wilson’s, I was threatened pretty profusely to keep my mouth shut after he died. Now, some years ago, Slade actually asked something very specific of me if anything were ever to happen to him. And after all this, I decided to keep as low a profile as possible until things blow over a bit so I can honor what it was he asked.” There’s a pause. “Something I can’t do if I turn up dead, and while I’m not what I’d call weak or helpless, I don’t like my odds in this situation.” 

“What did Slade ask of you?” I query, in case it’s relevant. 

“To keep an eye on his kids,” he replies. “I’ve been with that family a long time, Huntress, Tigress, Artemis, whatever you want to go by. They’re as much mine as they are his at this point. I have _every intention_ of making good on honoring that request. Hence… I like my own life as much as I do.” 

Well, maybe not _relevant,_ but respectable, at least. In some ways, Willie is making me think of Alfred — just one that’s happened to bat for a different team. 

“So _did_ Crock have anything to do with Wilson?” Jade asks. “I’m sorry if I seem impatient, but I’m not a fan of beating around bushes or going off on endless and totally irrelevant tangents.” 

“He did,” Wintergreen affirms, a heavy tone in his voice. “Crock killed Wilson.” 

There is again silence, chilly with the mourning wind. 

“What happened?” I ask. “Sportsmaster’s getting old and slow. I _refuse_ to believe he got the upper hand on Slade, who, last I checked, was still pretty spry.” 

There’s another spell of quiet, as Wintergreen looks regretfully off into the treeline. 

“Crock got hold of Slade’s daughter, Rose,” Willie finally says. 

My teeth clench. I recently came to learn that Rose Wilson, Slade’s youngest child, is twelve years old. I’d like to say it’s a new low for my father, snatching a child as bait, but sadly, it’s not. 

“Then what?” I ask. 

“Well, from what Rose told me later, Slade and Crock fought it out,” Wintergreen sighs, “and Crock eventually got the girl in a choke hold — strangling her.” 

“Jesus,” I whisper, sickened, my heart dropping. Even Jade looks perturbed, by the set of her shoulders and tightened thighs. 

“I guess Slade let his guard down for one second, just in an effort to get Crock talking, anything to get Rose out of his grip, and… well, old Larry talked, all right, said something to the effect of using their daughters to get at one another, and then he let that flail fly and that was the end of Slade Wilson.” He sighs. “Deathstroke the Terminator, undone by his love for his kids.” He pauses, and shakes his head. “Look — I’d never call Slade the best father that ever walked the earth. But he loved his kids, and they loved him, in their own ways.” 

There’s another spell of somber quiet. 

“So do you know where Crock might be holed up?” I ask. 

He shakes his head. “The person to talk to would be Rose Wilson. She witnessed everything. But I can’t promise she’ll know anything or even talk to you — Crock had her pretty scared. She didn’t call for help, didn’t seek help, none of it. She walked to a bus station in Smallville and made her own way back to the house in Star City. As of now, she won’t even go to authorities — and I’m the only one who knew she was there at all, other than Joey and Grant.” 

“Well,” I say, softening considerably. “It’s safe to assume law enforcement will connect the dots and come to talk to her eventually. But if we’re the first to come calling… I don’t know, maybe it’ll help her feel a little more prepared and comfortable when that day comes.” I pause, and jerk a thumb in my sister’s direction. “I promise my bedside manner is better than hers.” 

“Rim shot,” Jade says. 

“Well, I believe that much,” Wintergreen says, and my sister snorts. “I’m going to trust that you’ll be kind to her, given you’ve both got little girls of your own.” 

I smile up at Jade. “This guy’s good.” 

“The anti-Batman partner,” she agrees. “You know that means we should probably kill him, right?” 

I shake my head. “Nah, I trust him.” I cut his bolas and help him up. “As he said, he doesn’t want the big reveal we were here tonight to include the fact that he’s alive when he’s supposed to be well off the list of loose ends.” 

He nods, and as we face each other, he surprises me by shaking my hand. 

“Good luck,” he says. “To both of you. Hopefully Crock pays his dues, whatever they are — beyond what he did to Slade.” 

As Jade and I take our leave of Wintergreen, she gives me a skeptical look. 

“You know,” she says, “I can’t believe we’re leaving him alive. Dad might catch word we’re looking for him if that old man runs his mouth. Not to mention the little factor that Wintergreen knows who we are behind these masks.” 

I scoff. “Him and who the hell knows how many other people we’re not even aware of. Don’t forget, yellow journalists thought that chick from TRL was Tigress at one point, not to mention my real name and vigilante alter-ego were interchangeable once upon a time, and _still_ no one of any sort of importance figured it out — including the greater Internet.” We trace our steps through the woods, erasing the evidence of our having been there as we go. “As for Dad, it’ll be like a beacon to him if he does catch word — might as well tack on a bullseye and say ‘insert bullet here’ — and frankly, to quote my boyfriend, bring it, asshole.” I sigh. “Look, Jade, I’m pretty sure from this meeting and everything I read beforehand that Wintergreen’s pretty much on the up-and-up. He just worked for a sketchy character. He wouldn’t be the first.” 

“Or the last,” Jade concedes and chuckles. “And listen to you, schooling me. So grown up.” 

I laugh. “How the tables have turned.” 

We finish the walk and erasure in silence, reaching the car after some time. 

“What time do you have to be at the hospital in the morning?” she asks once we’re settled inside. She starts the engine and carefully backs out through the thicket. 

“Visiting hours start at eight,” I say with a jaw-cracking yawn. 

“Catch some Z’s on the way back, then,” she recommends, braking, parking, and getting out to cover the evidence of the car’s trip into the woods off the road. 

I take off the mask, and change into civvies in the front seat of the car, bundling the Huntress uniform into the pack I’ve brought. Once home, it’ll go into the Outhouse, hidden in a secret compartment I constructed myself. I take a second to be glad I do the laundry. Keeping an eye out for passing vehicles that might consider our pit stop suspicious, I’m rebuckling my seatbelt as Jade returns to the car. 

“So,” she says. “Next step, round up Rose Wilson in Star City.” 

“Looks that way,” I agree, leaning against the window of the car. “I’ll get that ball rolling.” 

“Isn’t this a team effort?” she asks. 

“A fair point,” I say, closing my eyes. “But let me make the first move, okay?” 

“If you insist,” Jade says amiably. “Don’t forget, I have a daughter, too.” 

I smile. “Yep. And she’s adorable.” Again, I yawn. “I’ll get started on that tomorrow when I get home from the hospital.” 

“Speaking of that, better rest up,” she tells me. “You look like a cast extra in _Night of the Living Dead.”_

“Gee, thanks,” I crack. 

“I mean it, sis. Have you been sleeping? Or eating?” 

I sigh, by now shot of this now commonplace conversation. “Okay, first off, I’m eating when I can, thank you very much, but… okay, not really sleeping. It seems like every time I start dozing off, I just jerk back awake, sweating like crazy with my heart pounding and my mind racing, and then I can’t even _start_ dozing from there.” I issue an irritated sound. “It’s _so_ annoying.” 

“Hmm. You talk to that Black Canary lady?” she asks. 

I shake my head. “Oh, come on.” 

“I’m serious.” 

I give her a hard look. “I don’t need it, Jade. I’m not the only person in the world who’s dealt with a situation like this — I mean, there are tons of people whose partners have had terminal fucking cancer for _years_ and they’re not whining to a shrink about it.” 

“Other people and their apparent strength in the face of hardship have nothing to do with you or this conversation,” Jade says flatly. “You look like shit. If you won’t talk to Black Canary Shrinkwrap, at _least_ get some sleep. And by the way, on our way back, we’re getting fast food. A _lot_ of it.” 

I groan, but acquiesce. I can’t deny I’ve felt the sleep-deprivation from all the obnoxious insomnia in recent weeks. Well, months, rather. And given the meeting with Wintergreen went off fairly painlessly (and praise the powers that be, since a repeat of False Documents Guy wouldn’t have made for a happy Artemis), I’m noticing the first real pangs of serious _hunger_ I’ve had in a good, long while. I prop my head up against the window, ignore the growling pleas from my gut, and close my eyes. 

Five seconds later, I blink awake to Jade shaking me. 

“We’re halfway there,” she says, and I notice muzzily that we’re in line at a drive-through. “Let’s get some food in you.” 

I grunt, and stretch, then figure it’s safe enough to reenable my phone. I disabled it earlier, since if things were to go south, as in _way_ south, as in Jade left behind a dead body in spite of my remonstrations south, I couldn’t allow something as simple and stupid as my phone signals and their locations to throw a wrench in things. Seeing I don’t have any outdated texts or voicemails, I stick the phone in my hoodie pocket, and blearily gaze at the menu. 

“You know, I’d cut a bitch for those chili cheese tots,” I say, yawning, my mouth watering even as I just think of them. 

Jade grins. “Now we’re talking. Double up, Slenderman.” 

I snort, and then jump out of my clothes and about hit the roof of the car when my cell phone suddenly vibrates. 

“Jumpy?” Jade chuckles. 

I release a breath, and think maybe I’m becoming totally neurotic and dismissing the concept of talking to Dinah isn’t in my best interest, after all. I lift the phone, and my heart falls when I see the number on the screen. 

Dick’s room at the hospital, which I’d programmed into my cell just after he’d come to. 

My heart, somewhere in the vicinity of my gut, starts hammering. _It might be Dick, but it might not be,_ flits through my mind at light speed, _it might be the staff doctor calling to tell you something’s wrong —_

I have stood next to hardened criminals, awaited battle, gone _into_ battle, testified in court against truly dangerous individuals, patrolled some of the most perilous, crime-riddled cities in the world — and never has my eyelid so much as twitched. Now, though, my hands are shaking — and bad. 

“Hello?” I answer, feigning calm, expecting a doctor’s voice on the other end. 

Instead, I exhale a relieved sigh and feel my heart as it returns to its proper position and slows down its frantic tempo when I hear Dick speak. 

“Artemis?” 

The relief is short-lived, however, when I pick up very plainly on the distress in his voice, the uncertainty, the unhidden waver, its hoarse, breaking quality. 

“Dick?” I reply. “Are you okay?” 

A pause, although I can hear his uneven breathing. 

“N-not really,” he answers, and my heart lowers again. 

“What is it?” I ask. 

Another pause. 

“I’m s-sorry, I know it’s l-l-late,” he says. “But… c-can you come by?” 

I look over at Jade, who’s eyeing me intently. 

“Of course I can,” I tell him, figuring if Jade won’t take me, I’ll call a damn cab or hoof it if I have to (although I know her. She will. And bless her for it.) “I’m maybe half an hour from Gotham, but traffic’s light. I won’t be long, just sit tight, okay?” 

“J-j-just tell security it’s an em-m-mergency when you g-get here,” he says, attempting a joke, and failing. His voice is thick, giving him away. 

“Screw security, I’ll come in through the window,” I say. “I’ll be right there.” 

“Okay.” I hear the sound of a stifled sob. 

My heart continues to speed up even as it keeps on in its steady decline. “I’m on my way, okay?” 

“Th-thank you, Arty,” he says. 

“You don’t have to thank me, babe,” I say gently. “…Do you want me to stay on the phone until I get there?” 

“N-no, you d-don’t have to,” he murmurs. There’s an agonizingly long pause before he adds, “I’ll b-b-be okay.” 

“Be there in a few minutes,” I say, distraught as I thumb the end prompt after he tells me, very quietly, “All r-r-right.” 

“Jade,” I say, gripping the phone. I look over at my sister. “You okay with driving me to Mercy? And stepping on it?” 

She was already pulling out of the line and onto the main road. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's poppin, y'all!
> 
> OMG I GOT THIS DONE HA HA HA
> 
> It took FOREVERRRR... and I'm still not sure I'm satisfied with it?? But it's gotten the beta seal of approval (thanks ya for the last minute looksie-doo, bestie!), so here it is. :-)
> 
> It gets a little heavy... like... semi-death-wishy stuff here and there. I tried very hard to approach all of the darker subject matter sensitively. <3 Hopefully I succeeded... <3
> 
> All my love, folks, and happy reading! 
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo!  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 3**

_Dick_

When Artemis comes sneaking through the window in a burst of wind like a herald from the Arctic Circle, she shuts the casement behind her with a learned, swift furtiveness, moving quietly so as not to alert the night nurses to her presence. With a murmured, “Hey, stud,” she taps the light on the nightstand once, bringing it to its lowest lambency, and approaches my bedside. 

“Sorry I took so long,” she continues. “I was in Blüdhaven with Jade for a seminar — we were only halfway back when you called.” 

I shake my head, then try to smile at her, and fail abysmally — the expression faltering under the incessant tears. I haven’t stopped crying since I clumsily tottered the phone back onto the cradle, although believe me, I’ve tried — I’ve only managed to dial it back a little here and there, concentrating my breathing and counting the ceiling tiles overhead with painstaking deliberation. I try to pull myself together somewhat, but even as I attempt a greeting, all of my words are lost in a strangled, breathless sob. 

Something about Artemis’ presence here, about the security, safety, and _comfort_ she brings me just by being her treasured self, evokes a more powerful sense of catharsis, a greater need to bubble over, eructate, _let go_ into the safe space that she creates. I wonder if she knows she does this, that she has this effect on me — that she’s the carpenter of the one, single place in which I feel _safe_ now. This place with her, where her presence surrounds me like a gentle, protective shroud, embracing and guarding me from all of the pain and sorrow that lies waiting outside the two of us. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers in her smokey voice, the voice I love so completely, cupping my face with her hands. She sits down on the edge of the bed. “…Come here.” 

I lean into her when she draws me close, laying one hand on my hair, cradling my face against her shoulder. I close my eyes, and even as I make an effort to speak, I can’t. I sob too hard, and choke on an apology. 

“It’s all right, babe,” she murmurs to me, and I feel her shake her head and lace her hand in my hair. “Don’t be sorry, okay? You don’t have to hold back with me, you know that." 

So I don’t. I release _everything_ into her strong, solid shoulder, the same shoulder that’s gotten disconcertingly bony, hearing her as she speaks to me now and then. She gently reiterates to me that I don’t need to be sorry even as I blubber my stuttering apologies, telling me that all of my emotions are mine and real, and that it’s _okay_ to feel them — that I can just chuck the happy face, feel what I’m feeling, and _cry._ When she quiets on that final note, I do — sobbing with all my might, bawling until the words _finally_ start coming, the _real_ words, my raw, untrammeled emotions released finally materialized into the air. 

“It’s g-gone,” I cry helplessly, over and over, like a litany. “Everything’s g-g-g-gone — it’s gone, it’s all g-gone, _I’m gone,_ A-a-artemis —” 

“What do you mean, you’re gone?” she asks gently, running one hand up and down my back. 

“I’ve l-l-lost _everything_ — everyth-th-thing of who I a-am —” I lose my voice momentarily in a strangled, hiccuping sound. “All of _m-m-m-me_ is gone —” 

“Why do you say that?” Artemis asks. 

I pull back from her, and shake my head, sobbing into the heels of my hands. “Artemis — e-e-e-everything of wh-who I am — it’s g-g-g-gone — _it’s all gone —_ I can’t m-m-m-move, I can’t w-walk, I can’t _f-f-f-fly,_ I can’t _help,_ I can’t even g-g-get out of th-this b-b-bed — _I c-c-c-can’t even f-f-f-ffff-fucking t-t-t-t — speak —”_ I take a wet, shuddering breath, and caterwaul like a giant, pathetic baby. 

Artemis takes my hand, and holds it firmly in hers. She’s quiet, inclining her head, her body angled toward me, waiting for me to go on, not opening her mouth to speak. It’s something she’s often done, listening to me in perfect quiet like this, not once interrupting as she lets me talk myself out until I can make heads and tails of the convoluted, tangled web of thoughts and feelings inside. 

My voice is thick and unsteady, totally embarrassing. However, after the last several weeks, this level of indignity is paltry, forgettable. I weep like a tantruming child as I go on, my stutter worsening with every word. “Who am I n-n-n-now? Artemis, I d-d-d-don’t even know who I _am_ now — I d-don’t even kn-know why I’m h-h-here — if I c-c-can’t even be myself, what p-p-p-purpose do I e-e-even have anymore? Why didn’t I just _d-d-die?”_ I hitch so hard I nearly heave. 

“Okay, babe, that’s enough,” she whispers, her voice a firm, gentle protest. She gives me a light, insistent pull and wraps me up tightly within her arms. She shakes her head. “Don’t say that — _any_ of it. I mean it. Don’t.” 

And at this, I’m _wailing_ into her chest now — the levees are down, and oh, the flood cometh. I’m doubtless alerting the nurses, but I don’t care. “It’s t-t-t-t-true, though, Artemis — I’m not _m-m-me_ anymore, I don’t have any p-p-p-purpose h-here anymore, even j-j-just on a sm-small scale — I can’t g-g-g-g-g-ggggive you m-m-m-more children — and you s-s-s-said you wanted m-more — and I haven’t even _s-s-s-s-sssseen_ the one we h-have —” I slam my fist into the mattress, repeat the gesture with both hands, several times, bawling harder with each strike, past the end of my rope and inhumanly frustrated by the terrible, hindering stutter. “And I can’t — I c-c-c-can’t d-d-do anything f-f-for you _at all,_ Artemis, I’m j-j-j-just a _b-b-b-b-burden_ on you, all I d-do is _t-t-t-take_ from you… I can’t t-take c-care of y-y-y-you, I c-can’t take care of M-m-m-mary… I can’t e-e-e-even —” I haul in another ragged breath, and gear up to launch into this particular tirade. “I c-can’t _hold_ you with a b-b-body like this, I can’t _l-l-lo-love_ you w-with this body, I can’t a-a-a-ask you to l-l-love _me —_ this isn’t f-f-f-f-fffair to you — _it’s n-not fair —_ you d-d-d — d-deserve better —” 

“Dick, don’t.” Her arms tighten around me. “Don’t start thinking like that.” 

“It’s t-t-t-true —” 

“Stop it,” she whispers fiercely. 

“But you d-d-do… Artemis, you shouldn’t be sp-sp-sp — sp — spending your l-l-life like this, w-wasting your t-t-time in this sh-sh-shithole on some washed-up c-c-c-c-cripple, or coma b-b-boy, or whatever — you should h-have a _life,_ you should b-b-be enjoying it, you sh-sh-should be _ha-happy —”_

“Dick, _stop,”_ she says, this time with a hard-edged sternness to her voice. 

I shake my head emphatically before she can go on. “Arty, I _l-l-left_ you, I left you alone for _seven m-m-m-m-mmmonths,_ I wasn’t th-there when you n-needed me or when I _should_ have b-b-b-b-been there — I wasn’t there for our b-b-baby, I was just —” I suck in another reedy, gurgling breath. “ _I left you._ And n-n-now, I don’t even know how I’m g-g-g-going to m-mmmake up for that… how can I even _st-st-start_ to make up for _so much_ when I’m n-n-not mys-s-self anymore and wh-wh-wh — when I can’t even s-s-s-sit up?” I pull away, and gesticulate. “I haven’t even m-m-met Mary…” 

And I just dissolve all over again, falling flat against the pillows under me, and Artemis holds my hand, stroking my arm, allowing me now to just weep myself dry. 

When I physically can’t expel one more tear, and my sobs taper into little puerile snuffles and hiccups, Artemis reaches over to me, and strokes my damp, stringing hair away from my forehead. She extends a handful of tissues from the nightstand to me, opening her mouth to speak. Just then, footfalls forerun the arrival of one of the night nurses, conveniently coming along for one of the obnoxious vitals checks that are mandatory every three hours at night. Artemis gives me a look somewhere between alarmed, annoyed, and conspiratorial, and ducks into the bathroom to avoid an unnecessary confrontation. 

Nurse Nancy (incidentally my favorite night nurse) takes my vitals, as always kind and concerned when she sees how overtly distraught I am, ensuring that more tissues are within easy reach. She replaces the bag to my IV, stating “You’ve just about drained yourself completely dry, honey,” and then makes a note of the fact that I worked myself up into a low-grade fever. She tells me not to fret when the alarm visibly crosses my features, since if it goes down by morning (and with all likelihood, it will), I’ll still be able to have my planned visitors. I sag with relief, and when she pats my hand and leaves the room, Artemis peeps out of the bathroom. 

“Safe to come out?” she asks. 

I nod. “You’d have been s-s-s-safe with Nancy, though, I think. She’s r-r-r-r-rrreally nice.” 

She smiles a bit. “Sounded like it, from what I heard. Not that I was eavesdropping or anything.” She comes back to my bedside, and sits down. 

“S-sorry about this, Artemis,” I murmur, by now _finally_ calming down somewhat under the emptying of just about every drop of fluid I have in my body and the timely interruption, which acted like something of a reboot to my system. My voice is hoarse and thin, all my muscles utterly depleted. I sigh heavily, and wipe at my wet, burning eyes. “G-g-god, I’m so s-sorry.” 

“Oh, Dick, don’t be sorry,” she says, and again, takes my hand in hers. “You _needed_ this, babe. You’ve been keeping up such a strong front for so long, bottling all this up — it _had_ to come out sometime.” 

I half-heartedly chuff. “The truth w-will ou-ou-out, as the saying g-g-goes.” 

She half-smiles, and nods, affecting a sage voice. “And to thine own self be true.” She pauses, frowning as she studies the surface of the bed. “Dick… listen. I don’t have any ready answers for you on any of this. There’s not really much I can actually _say_ that’s going to just magically _fix_ everything.” She sighs. “I wish there was.” 

I shake my head. “I don’t e-e-e-expect you to f-fix anything, Artemis. I d-d-d-d-depend on you for too m-much as it is.” 

She smiles. “Well, that’s fine. But speaking of that… Dick. Thinking about what you said…” She brushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear with her free hand, apparently organizing her thoughts. “Where do I even start… Ohhh, boy.” She inhales, and exhales. “Well… Listen, babe — none of this… It’s not about — _deserving better,_ and it’s not about the kind of life you _think_ I should have, and it’s not about how I _should_ be spending my time, either. I understand why you might feel that way — God knows I’d feel the same — but… Dick, I _need_ you to know and understand this is _my_ choice. Okay? There’s nowhere I’d rather be, and there’s nothing I’d rather be doing.” She’s quiet a moment, and releases a breath. “…Just. You’ve always been there for me. I don’t even know if you realize just how much — there were times I thought…” She trails off, and shakes her head. “Sometimes I _really_ don’t know where I’d be without you. It sounds a little… I don’t know, a little cheesy, maybe, but…” She lifts a shoulder. “And that includes you as my teammate, my friend, my partner — all of it. You were the first to know about me, you know — and you never judged me or mistrusted me or let it change how you felt about me. You accepted me a hundred percent as I was. All of our friends did the same, which I now realize I shouldn’t have expected any differently, but… Dick, you were the first. You knew the whole time, and you never once were anything but completely accepting. Do you know how much that still means to me?” She angles her body and leans toward me. I hold her hand tighter. “You’ve taken care of me since I first met you. I’m not a big fan of the term ‘take care of’ when it’s used in the same sentence as _me,_ but… you really did. You _looked out_ for me. I mean… you looked out for me in battle, you looked out for me at school, you looked out for me as my friend, you looked out for me and all but _carried_ me after Wally… and then last year, you made what would have been a scary and challenging time for anyone probably the happiest time I’ve ever had in all my life. _You_ did that.” 

I shake my head. “D-d-don’t shortchange y-y-y-yyyourself, Artemis,” I admonish her, my voice a little breathless and weak after how much crying and speaking I’ve just done, the stutter now fucking unbearable. I inhale, utilizing the cannula to its full potential, and breathe out to a count of seven. “And don’t g-g-g-give me so much c-credit. A lot of that was also j-just because you’re y-y-y —” I pause, and again, inhale, “ _you_ — and you’re the st-st-st-strongest person I’ve ever m-met.” I take a quick breather before continuing. “You know y-you’re the reason I h-h-h — hung in there f-for all those years? After Jason, T-t-tula, Wally… I don’t know what I’d have d-d-d-done without your f-f-f-f-ffffffriendship and your own strength inspiring me, A-a-artemis. You made it _e-e-easy_ for me to be st-strong.” 

She half-smiles, her cheeks coloring prettily in the low lamplight. “Well, likewise, babe. On all counts.” She lifts my hand, and kisses my knuckles. “Bottom line… I accept _you_ a hundred percent as you are. No matter what that is. I love you no matter what, Dick, and I’m _here_ for you no matter what. If you’d woken up a vegetable, I’d be saying the same exact thing. Heck, if we ran into Circe and she turned you into a freaking _pig,_ same deal. If you lost the use of your legs _and_ arms…” She gestures. “You get the idea. Again, though… you were there for _me_. Let me do the same for you now, okay? I know you’re used to always being the one to respond to the calls for help and take care of others and do the noble thing and be everyone’s hero… but try to remember it’s _okay_ to let go sometimes, and allow someone else to do the caring. Even _you_ need it on occasion, Boy Wonder. And… just know I do it now because it’s _my_ choice and I _choose_ to.” 

I muster, taking a breath, and then releasing it. I’m not good at this, this whole letting go and allowing others to take care of me business, but I squeeze Artemis’ hand, and nod. 

“Here’s the other thing, babe,” she says. “You really bucked all of the odds and expectations, here. Thompkins barely gave you a day when you were first brought in. She said you were one of those on-first-glance, dead-for-sure ones, and it was just a matter of time — hours at best. And guess what — those hours went by, and then they turned into days, and then weeks, and then months… and all with steady improvement, all the way up until you woke up — and retained _full cognition._ Dick, there’s _still_ no logical or empirical explanation for it — it’s pretty much a divine miracle that you’re alive at all, let alone that all your brain cells are lined up properly. Every single doctor we’ve seen has said anyone else would have been dead before the first ambulance got there.” 

I’m quiet, listening. This isn’t anything I haven’t heard before — all this shock and awe over my surviving what apparently was some seriously egregious and disturbing bodily harm. But I have a feeling that Artemis is going somewhere with this, somewhere beyond just the _remember it’s a privilege to be here when you should have been dead_ crap. That vein of talk makes me feel like _screaming._ It would have been _infinitely_ easier on everyone around me if I’d just done the polite, considerate thing and bitten it straight off, instead of being my general obstinate self and adding to everyone’s troubles and burdens and cares, throwing a giant, upheaving wrench in their delicately turning gears by sticking around like a fusty, cloying fart. At least if I’d kicked the bucket, they’d have been able to _move on_ with their lives, and Artemis in particular wouldn’t be stuck in this never-ending bullshit — that of pinballing between the eight million things on her plate and holding my entire world together singlehanded. Did I mention she’s been a single mother to our daughter for the last almost nine months _and_ had an invalid to tend to on top of it? 

“And… I think this was all you, whether you realized it or not,” Artemis goes on. “I don’t think you were ready to die — and I don’t think you were willing to give up. I _still_ don’t think you’re willing to give up — since you’re _here,_ and you’re still the person we all remember and love. Again, bucking every single expectation from the very beginning — speaking of the strongest person _I_ know.” She reaches over, and lays her hand on my shoulder. “Listen. This is going to be hard, babe. I’m not going to pretend it won’t be. It’s been hard, and it’s going to keep being hard. But I believe you can overcome this, and I believe _you_ believe you can overcome this.” She moves her hand to mine, takes it, and squeezes it. “And like I said, Dick… I’m here. I’m right here with you. You’re not going to face this alone.” 

My throat goes hard and lumpy again, and I swallow, squeezing her fingers in turn. I nod. 

“So… tell you what. Let’s take this one step at a time,” Artemis says. “Break it up into manageable pieces, instead of trying to hurl you in full-tilt and expect you to accomplish everything at once and adjust to everything immediately and without a single glitch. I mean, talk about chucking you into the deep end in choppy, shark-infested waters when you don’t have a clue how to swim.” I huff a light chuckle, and she smiles. “Let’s just focus for now on getting you well and strong enough to meet Mary. Okay?” 

I nod with fervent agreement. I don’t think I can take another _hour_ of having my relationship with my daughter relegated to weeping over her photographs and having Paula chase her around the house with the phone when we video call, or conversely, having Mary swipe the phone and inadvertently end the call in her eternal fascination with the visual prompts on the screen. It’s not to say that my daughter hasn’t lit up to see my face, or babbled to me in unintelligible eight-month-old speak, or crawled and tottered about to show me her toys through the screen when we FaceTime with her and Paula from Artemis’ phone, but there’s a sense of profound dissatisfaction in these electronic exchanges — they feel false, plastic, like a proffering of water held out of reach when you’re dying of thirst. I haven’t _held_ her, haven’t _seen_ her, haven’t _heard_ her. And I’m going out of my skull — this is my _child._ The child I waited anxiously for over the course of so many months, only to knocked off the mat and _kept_ off the mat just before the time came to finally hold her in my arms, get to _know_ her, love her like I so want to. 

“And after that,” Artemis adds, “we can maybe work on getting you well and strong enough to be allowed to come home, and then… well, we’ll go from there. One thing at a time.” 

I let go a sigh. Home. Home would be _amazing._ I wasn’t there, in our house, for long, but I came to love that little base of operations, the concept of a physical location representing the spirit of _home_ for the first time in my life, when before, home was people. 

“Sounds manageable,” I agree, my voice a drafty wisp by now. 

“Dickie,” Artemis says, her face lighting up. 

I incline my head. 

“You didn’t stutter,” she says, grinning. 

I chuckle. “G-g-give it one more s-s-sentence.” I grimace. “C-case in point. That ought to b-b-be included in my l-l-list of shorter term g-g-goals, learning to t-t-t-talk properly.” 

“Well, all right, then,” she tells me, leaning over to me, and kissing my forehead. “Get well enough to meet Mary, and come home, and get more comfortable talking. That’s a good trio of short-term, manageable goals.” 

“I th-think I can tackle that m-much,” I say, speaking slowly, fighting _hard_ to enunciate. “Now get home and get some f-f-freaking sleep, babe.” 

She snorts. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” 

I shake my head, not biting at her moment of levity. “I m-m-mean it, Mom. And… p-p-please eat.” 

“Well, right back at you, Kokolimalayas,” she says. “If you can promise _me_ you’ll sleep and eat, I’ll do the same. Fair?” 

I smile — _finally._ “Fair.” 

She hovers a moment. “You sure you don’t want me to stay?” she asks. 

I nod. “I’m s-sure. You h-have Mary to be thinking about, and your m-m-mom will worry if you don’t c-come home.” 

“All right.” She brushes my hair off my forehead, and sobers a moment. Her eyes warm and soften. “It’ll be okay, babe. All of this… it’ll be okay. I know it might not seem like it now, but it will.” 

I allow those words to sink in, letting them suffuse my spent, aching spirits. Somehow, in this moment, in spite of feeling anything but the contrary up to now, _I believe her_ — that even if it seems like I’ll never be okay again _right now,_ all of this will end up okay in the end. 

I close my eyes for a brief spell. The feeling of this, this renewed sense of faith and peace, brings with it an intense, almost overwhelming sense of relief — it seems maybe like… well, a bit of an _odd_ comparison to make, but the alleviation is so sudden and complete that it’s akin to a wash of powerful heartburn banished at once by a dose of Maalox. And now, all of the burgeoning clogs plunging themselves from my system piecemeal, all of the poisons diluted, I’m nothing but utterly, utterly exhausted. In spite of myself, when I open my eyes again, the lids flutter. 

I feel Artemis’ palm on my cheek. “Wore yourself out, handsome,” she says warmly, and gives me a light, quick kiss on the lips. “See you in the morning.” 

I turn my face into the pillow as Artemis’ fingers slide from mine, my body heavy, sinking, and sapped. For the first time since coming to six weeks ago, I sleep soundly, untroubled by wakeful spells or nightmares, bolstered by Artemis’ unconditional support and the knowledge that she’ll return in a matter of hours. 

******* 

Artemis’ words have had an invigorating effect on me, lighting the sparking beginnings of a fire under my tired, aching butt to go all in on my physical and speech therapies and attempt appropriate rest and food. Don’t worry about winding up embarrassed, I tell myself every morning the nurse comes in to check my vitals and bring in breakfast — don’t worry about how long this will take, don’t worry about everything you used to be able to do or what you’ll miss, don’t worry about the long term. I repeat this to myself every morning I plow through a missed creature comfort in the form of a cup of coffee — a mantra to amp me up for the ardors of each day. And I remind myself that my blind eye will be passably fixed soon, same with my missing teeth, and I place those bothers firmly on the shelf. I even try to feel stoked about the prospect of winding up a legitimately bespectacled computer geek — essentially, fully assimilating my nerd self. 

And instead of dwelling on the facets of my daily routine that I dread, I focus singularly on two things — Mary, and home. Every time a disconsolate, discouraged, or even just plain _negative_ thought crops up, I instead concentrate _hard_ on thoughts of my daughter and of the house, practicing meditative breathing and relaxation exercises if I have to. Just this — this shift in _thinking_ — is work in and of itself, but I have Mary’s photo by my bed to remind me of what it is I’m working toward first, and thoughts of home, namely of Princess (who, Artemis tells me, still waits for me by the door with each day that passes — I _miss_ that little fuzzball-turned-fuzzbarge), to remind me of the next step in this long, arduous, and wholly necessary process. 

Paula’s visit the morning after Artemis’ furtive, nighttime drop-in three weeks ago only invigorated me further. It was on the first morning of my newfound sense of purpose — before, I had lost all sense of _myself,_ and was just grasping at the nebulous straws of shapeless, long-off goals extended to me by outsiders. It was too much — trying to comprehend treating the aphasia and debilitating stutter to a complete cure, adjusting to having only half my body’s functions available for use to such an extent it would be as though I were born with a wheelchair attached to my butt, get my counts so far out of the red that I could have someone with ebola sneeze on me and count on my immune system to stave off those heebie-jeebies. To say it was a little overwhelming to have all of this _thrown_ at me, constantly hurled at my face like a volley of missiles, would understate the _hell_ out of it. 

But when Artemis said to focus on getting well enough to be able to meet Mary for now, and _only_ that, and then to worry about only one thing next, and then another, single thing following — it at last clicked into place in my overstimulated, damaged brain. Compartmentalize. Work through one thing at a time, and block out the rest. And I found I felt a new resolve, now that there was an attainable, visible _end_ on the horizon — this being to receive the okie-dokie to see Mary, which meant, in a nutshell, undergoing perfectly doable daily tasks toward recuperation so that I could be pronounced healthy enough to be exposed to my baby’s daycare-acquired amoebas. 

(I’m in a freaking _hospital._ Don’t try to tell me there aren’t more amoebas in my water glass than there are in my baby’s entire body. Artemis and I whine endlessly together about the injustice of it all. But _they’re_ the experts — and sometimes you just have to have faith that they know what they’re talking about, even if it defies every inch of logic you possess.) 

Anyway, that morning, Paula wheeled readily to where I sat in the upholstered, creaky recliner close to the window — for the first time, I wanted to be _up_ for my visitors, not supine and languishing in bed in a hospital gown like I was doomed to life as a perpetual and determined invalid as I had done prior. Artemis had gently, but effectively, made her point, whether it was intended or not — I _wasn’t_ dead, and even if I felt it or questioned my reason for being at times, it was time I stopped _comporting_ like it. So I made my first semblance of effort at passing for a functioning human being since waking up — combing my unruly hair, brushing the teeth I have left, shaving the impressive growth of beard I’d let go hitherto, and getting dressed in real clothes. (Artemis brought some for me, and they’d sat forgotten in a drawer up to then.) 

Just one problem. 

At last trying to _appear_ decent somehow only made me more aware of my missing teeth and drooping orbital. Uh… yikes. Self-consciousness about my looks, I realized in that moment, gazing at my scarred, disfigured reflection with my one working eye, was new and exceptionally uncomfortable territory. 

_It’s just Paula,_ I reminded myself, _and Artemis, and she’s seen you a gajillion times. No one expects you to have all your shit together so soon, anyway._

And sudden transformation into Quasimodo aside, to my considerable pride and surprise, I accomplished _everything_ on my own that morning — from transferring myself from the bed to the chair, to washing up and grooming, to getting dressed, and then to shifting to the recliner. I was huffing and puffing and blowing my house in by the time I was done, and a tad disoriented due to the altered depth and spatial perception owing to my blind eye, but I did _all_ of it myself. And to my further astonishment, another first hit me when I found I was _starving_ for all the effort — I hadn’t been properly hungry since I opened my eyes. 

I waited for Artemis and Paula, however, who brought takeout from the breakfast place that Artemis and I favored in the time just after we moved into our house, and commonly frequented on weekend mornings. Just the _smell_ of the food was nostalgic. Artemis set the bag down on the small table in the seating nook by the window where I sat while Paula jubilantly made her way to me. I suddenly didn’t give a crap if half my teeth were missing — I think my smile, if it were any wider, would have split my face. It wasn’t the easiest thing to accomplish on my end, the hug as Paula and I leaned toward each other, but we managed. It was _so good_ to see her, this incredible, resilient, compassionate woman who had reminded me of what it was to have a _mom_ again. God, I had missed her — but until that moment, I hadn’t appreciated just how much. 

“Oh, Dick, my sweet boy —” she said immediately as she wrapped her arms around me, small and thin, but hard and strong. I tried not to laugh at the euphemism, even as I teared up with joy just to _see_ her. She’s been known to get a little corny when the time comes, although to be honest, that to me remains one of her many endearing qualities. And having lost my mom, and then come into a family that, which the exception _maybe_ of Alfred, _never_ uses terms of endearment on one another, I won’t ever say no to one from a loving, maternal figure in my life. I never minded the rare occasion when Dinah would call me “honey,” for instance — although the others might have bristled over such a thing, I _relished_ it. I especially love it from Paula, whom I comfortably took to calling Mom before everything happened. 

“It’s a M-m-m-mom!” I said, elated, both of us crying a bit. “I m-m-m-missed you… FaceTime’s n-n-n-never cut the m-m-mustard for me.” 

She leaned back, and clasped my face in her hands, and shook her head through her grin. “Oh, I’ve missed you so much, too, sweetheart… how are you feeling? Have they been treating you okay?” 

I nodded and assured her I was fine, and the staff were nothing but kind. Artemis came over to me, leaning down to give me a kiss hello, and then rubbed at my shaven cheek. 

“Aw, look at you — you look so nice!” she exclaimed, smiling ear-to-ear. “All clean-shaven and dressed and stuff — you handsome devil.” 

“Th-thanks, babe,” I said, warming at her compliments, a marginal bit of confidence restored. “S-s-so do you, b-by the way.” 

She beamed, looking even nicer for the expression. I really _did_ love her new hairstyle (still do.) And she looked so _cute_ that morning (not that she doesn’t every morning, granted), with her gleaming, newly colored hair tied in a low ponytail, her outfit cozy, her cheeks fresh — I’ll never understand how she manages to be so damn _cute._

“Who’s w-w-w-watching Mary?” I asked, curious. 

“Zatanna the Fairy Godmother,” said Artemis, “and she said to bring you these, actually.” 

She produced a box of Zebra Cakes, a favored comfort food of mine, and I laughed. “T-tell her she’s a s-s-s-s-sweet, precious angel, w-will you?” 

As we tore into the bags of food, I determined that even if I’d fretted miserably the night prior about whether I still _knew_ my girlfriend after so much time lost, I would just take this part of things day by day, same as everything else — I’d get to know her again, I knew. Even if she’d changed, growing and shifting and developing over the months I spent stagnating in a protracted siesta, she _was_ still herself, still the Artemis that I loved and worshipped, still my best friend and soul’s counterpart. And instead of feeling the familiar, intense guilt and self-condemnation over not knowing how she might have changed, I found I was rather looking forward now to familiarizing myself with what changes she might have integrated. 

Artemis ducked off to pick up some more coffee — decent coffee from the Boston Stoker transplant in the building across the lot — after breakfast, and it was then that Paula and I shifted into some Real Talk. 

The transition into the subject of my recently acquired physical circumstances occurred naturally — not in an abrupt way that might have caught me off guard and made me spectacularly uncomfortable just to consider it. And as I opened up and discussed my worries, fears, sorrows, and regrets in response, Paula listened, allowing me to stutter my way through them, filling in the blanks whenever she could to ease the burden of speaking on me. 

“Listen, Dick,” she said after a time. “I understand it all feels… so _big_ as to be impossible now, almost incomprehensible, even. This isn’t… you know, something you were _born_ with, something that’s no different to you than having a pair of legs in the first place — this is a _change,_ and one that’s so big it changes _everything_ about how you interact with the world around you. And that amount of change can be very intimidating, especially early on.” 

I nodded. “Yeah. That’s p-p-p-p-pretty much it. I a-a-always thought about th-this — I mean, m-my Uncle R-r-r-rrrick is in a ch-ch-chair, too — but I d-d-d-didn’t realize how m-m-much I actually d-depended on being able t-t-to g-get up and just w-w-walk around. Even just for d-d-d-dumb stuff.” 

She nodded, too. “It’s such a part of how you go about living, your known version of mobility. Any change to it is always a _huge_ adjustment.” She laid a hand on mine, and leaned toward me a bit. “Listen, Dick. I know it’s hard now, and it _will_ be hard for some time yet, I’m afraid. It took me a fair deal of time to even _accept_ what had happened to me, let alone adjust to and coexist with and assimilate it. But… _anh yêu,_ I _promise_ it gets easier. It does. And the more time goes by… the more you will look at your chair in the same way you always did your legs. It becomes like… an extension of you, every bit as much a part of you as your own limbs, and every bit as comfortable and easy. Just… like all things, it just takes time. But it _does_ get better.” She pauses a moment, and sighs. “It’s not to say you won’t _miss_ the use of your legs. There will be times even when you’ve gotten totally used to the chair that it’ll come back, and it’ll hurt. So… just don’t be alarmed or ashamed when you have those times, even years from now.” 

I squeezed her hand, keeping my fingers laced there, comforted and validated by her words and input. “Th-th-thank you. Mom.” 

She smiled, and right about then, Artemis returned, the conversation shifting back to fun things — Mary, the team, Lian and Jade and Roy, so on. When they left for the day, I was in a better humor than I’d been for what seemed a lifetime. 

Seeing Tim again the day after Paula was probably one of the happiest moments I’ve had since waking up, as he came in nothing but smiles with Jason, armed with his laptop and reams of nerd news to share with me. He exhibited _no_ reaction whatsoever to all of the enormous changes that I know are plain as hell to see all over me — he just bounded right over and gave me a strangling-tight hug, that he held for a _long_ time, never once showing the slightest sign of nonplus to see me so altered. That he approached me no differently than he would have if I were my former, hale-and-hearty self meant the entire damn universe to me in that moment. I had feared and even expected hesitation, uncertainty, dedicated avoidance of serious talk, and a stolid insistence on a deliberate lack of eye contact and maintenance of safe, comfortable, dull topics. Not so — Tim just smiled for all he was worth, never once shied away from me, didn’t give any signs of irritation or discomfiture over my difficulty communicating, and was just his usual self. Unguarded and unaffected. 

I’ve missed my friends and teammates so much I’ve felt it in my _bones_ — but I’ve experienced some nervousness at the idea of seeing them, fearing the same aforementioned possibilities, and more besides. It’s a hundred percent of the reason I haven’t FaceTimed or Skyped with any of them, actually — even though Artemis and Jason have both offered. But if Tim’s response to me was anything to go on, I thought, perhaps I was needlessly fearful of my friends’ reactions on our reunion, whenever it would be. And given I’m damn well shot of every interaction being stuck to cyber, I’d rather hold out for seeing them in person. 

Tim and I went over all the latest updates to existing operating systems, recent big-name vulnerabilities, alien hacks — the whole gamut. And although I stuttered like _crazy_ as we discussed the piles of info (Jason looking bored to tears the entire while — he knows his way around a computer, but he’s not as hopelessly impassioned a nerd as Tim and I are), I was mollified to discover I could still comfortably process everything that I read and looked at. Getting it _out_ of my brain was likely to be a different story, but that I could still glance at a line of code, comprehend it, pick it apart, and _improve_ on it was heartening. I was tired by the end of their visit — but in a good way. 

Jason left me a book he thought I might like (I did — I read it in a sitting, my concentration span at last better than that of a gnat’s), and the two of them left, hand-in-hand together, an image that warmed me through and made me genuinely smile. I wished they didn’t have to go. 

But they’ve been in together nearly every day since, as have Artemis, Bruce, and Alfred. Paula comes, too, when she’s able. And truthfully, their presence is worlds and away the best medicine. 

The improved — _genuinely_ improved — attitude has made the entire rhythm of each day, grueling as it is, noticeably more surmountable — something my family and the medical teams have all remarked on as I go through the rigmarole, now working extra hard in all therapies, keeping my attainable, shorter-term endgames in mind. And the results have _at last_ started coming, showing up all at once, as though shoved into sight by an unseen hand. PT, for one, is easier, even if speech therapy hasn’t come along all that much. 

“You’re really improving at a rapider pace,” Tal remarked one morning in his accented voice as I went through the exercises, and when I looked askance at him, Bruce nodded his affirmation. 

“Dick, you’re moving through these exercises probably three times faster than you were just two weeks ago, and you’re doing it without even needing a break,” he said. “Well done.” 

It felt _so good_ to receive that bit of praise — that bit of genuine, heartfelt applause that vindicated all of my hard efforts hitherto, the ones I often put up against surging swells of hatred and bitterness. It was only better still when Artemis came in for her lunch visit later that day (looking supernaturally gorgeous), and lifted her eyebrows when she saw me in my tee-shirt. 

“Hmm,” she said appreciatively, squeezing my bicep, “look at that. You’re getting your girly figure back, there, stud.” 

If Bruce’s words felt good, these felt even better. I smiled and flexed, warming when she squeezed my arm again, and fanned her face. 

It’s not to say it’s all fluff and sunshine — every good moment is underlaid with a current of disquiet, the keen sense that something, somewhere, is eternally, inherently _wrong._ And it’s inclined to catch up with me at at least _some_ point in each day, be that when I make a colossal mess of myself and have to have some put upon, overworked nurse hose me off in the shower, or when I find myself huffing and sweating just shifting positions from the bed to the chair and back again, or when I look outside at all the spring sunshine and realize I’ll never go for a jaunt or outdoor gymnastics sesh to stretch my legs between coding bouts again. But when I want to break down and cry and fall into mires of despair, frustration, and grief, I do it at night, with the nurses to be the ears and shoulders I need. I try not to bring it to Artemis now, unless I’m _really_ in a bad way. If you ask me, she has, by far and away, the hardest job in this set of circumstances, but all throughout, she’s been nothing but a freaking powerhouse of boundless strength, love, and support — truly, a model to aspire to. And since she’s been tough for me — I’ve determined to be tough for her, and legit this time. No false pretenses, no facades, no play acting to the situation at hand. 

And although my systems held up and checked out after the added stimulation brought by the influx of new visitors and harder efforts in my therapies, Thompkins chose to have Amy reschedule my investigative interview for some time TBD after my release from the hospital — something I find I’m actually pretty all right with. I don’t remember much — I don’t remember _anything_ about what might have happened to me, actually — so I don’t see how I’ll be of any real, solid help to the authorities minus pointing fingers at circumstantial suspects. 

There is, of course, a mad _curiosity_ and burning need to _know_ what the hell happened in painful specific to land me here now, but I also know that if I start attempting to pop open that can of beans, it may end up so messy that it hinders my current goals. 

_One thing at a time, Dickie,_ I remind myself. _Worry about that later. It’s obviously not going anywhere, and everyone’s hesitating to level with you for a reason. Odds are, you’re going to have to piece it together on your own — and you can’t really do that right this red hot second, can you? Be patient for once in your life, and focus on first things first — once you’re out of here and at home, you can do all the research and investigating you feel like doing. And you_ will, _because like Artemis said, you’re still you._

I have my suspicions, anyway — and affirming them will, indeed, only prove a messy and awful can of beans to have explode all over me after prying the top off. Everyone’s been vague when I’ve probed them — assuring me that it’s “being dealt with” or “been dealt with,” always chasing those promises with remonstrations to focus on myself and my recovery. 

It’s been a bitter and enormous, choking pill — but I’ve forcibly swallowed it, and stuck to the task at hand. Mary’s infinitely more important than finding out the hows and whys and whens and wheres and whos of my extensive injuries, in any case. So I’m all right with this interview being shifted to who-knows-when, its new timeframe more likely to coincide with when I electively set an active goal of Getting Some Answers. 

And I did the right thing, the _wise_ thing, taking Artemis’ advice and going through things one bit at a time. Because… here I am now, pronounced tolerably healthy three weeks after my girlfriend’s post-midnight stopover, following hard, concentrated efforts toward that same result. I’m considered _healthy enough —_ diagnosed as healthy enough. 

Meaning I sit in what I’m determined now to refer to and think of as my exoskeleton (aka, my wheelchair — I think I might name him Yolo Swaggins, I don’t know, it just fits), by the window in my room, Bruce and Alfred by my side… waiting for Artemis to come in with Mary. 

I’m _finally_ going to meet my daughter today. 

My hands shake a little where they lie on Yolo Swaggins’ armrests. I’m nervous, every cell in my body humming with anticipation, a reverberating pulse of endless thrills rippling through me in little breakers of excited and apprehensive energy. My biggest fear is that Mary will shift into Stranger Danger mode in spite of our video “chats,” not knowing me in person or in any corporeal fashion, and not want to come within a mile of me. I’m not about to take that personally, of course — but considering how desperately I’ve longed to hold her and come to know her since the day Artemis told me she was pregnant in my old apartment in Blüdhaven, such a response will hurt all the way down to the atoms. However, everyone — Artemis, Paula, Bruce, Alfred, Jason, Tim — all of them have assured me that Mary is a friendly thing, never knowing a single soul to be a stranger, fearless of newcomers and endlessly curious about the world around her, her curiosities extending to people every bit as much as much as new sights and things and experiences. From what I’ve seen through the screen of Artemis’ phone, it checks out. I just hope I don’t prove the exception to the apparent rule, with the sunken side of my face and missing teeth. I _did,_ however, get a shower this morning, a task I’m close to accomplishing without the need for assistance — score! — and I shaved and brushed and got dressed for the occasion. I even used my favored composition oil that Arty brought me from home. 

“What if she d-d-d-d-doesn’t know me?” I fret, tugging at the hem of my hooded sweatshirt. “I think I m-might j-j-j-j — leap out the w-w-window.” 

Before anyone can reply to that extremely tasteless joke, Bruce surprises me a bit when he squeezes my shoulder — I swear, I’ll never get used to how much he’s _touched_ me throughout these last weeks. 

(FYI, I am _not_ complaining.) 

“Artemis just sent me a text,” he announces. “They’re on their way up.” 

I take a breath, and let it go. My heart bangs in my chest and my face goes flush. I’m smiling, even if I’m antsy and tense. 

Endless minutes tick by, each one driving me a little more certifiably insane, until I hear Artemis’ voice down the hall, in conversation with a nurse — then a squeal, followed by the nurse’s laugh. Alfred smiles down at me, while Bruce keeps his hand on my shoulder. 

And finally, _finally —_ in they come. 

My smile morphs to a full-on grin when Mary — oh, my god, _Mary,_ it’s her, and she’s even more gorgeous than I could _ever_ have anticipated in person, not to wax into a complete and total dithering idiot — immediately smiles and waves her arms to see Bruce and Alfred. Artemis grins at us with a greeting, making her ready way over with Mary on her hip. The girl’s weight is settled there with a companionate, bonded ease, Artemis’ arm supporting her with a familiarity and complete comfort, Mary’s hands coming to rest on her mother’s chest and shoulder. The image is flawlessly organic — so utterly _natural_ that to know them as mother and daughter is instinctual on first sight. Artemis might as well have done this very thing since the dawn of time, she’s integrated this new facet of the divine feminine so seamlessly and with such perfect grace. 

Bruce and Alfred coo over Mary a moment, chatting to her a bit while Artemis lifts my hand and squeezes it with hers free by way of greeting. Her energy fuses intrinsically with our daughter’s in an unseen connection that I can’t help but feel _awed_ by as I just stare in complete rapture a moment. All of my senses hone in on her — my daughter — my surroundings for the time being totally forgotten. I barely hear the words around me, hardly register that I’ve been responding and talking in turn, all of my interactions switched on autopilot. I reach up, extending my hand to Mary, my heart _soaring_ when she instantly smiles and wraps her hand around my fore and middle fingers, her touch soft and light. 

She’s dressed in a little fleece jumper over a long-sleeved shirt and patterned leggings, the general theme of the outfit being cats (makes perfect sense — she and Princess are best buds at home), a headband with a bow on it positioned atop the downy blanket of dark hair that covers her head. Her eyes are Artemis’ deep gray, her features evidencing her Vietnamese and Romany backgrounds. Beautiful — just like her mother, her aunt and great-aunt, her grandmothers. My eyes well to see so many small attributes that I can trace to my own lost family, and to experience the sense that I’ve been _gifted_ with family and home here in this moment. 

Artemis remarks on Mary’s positive reaction to this little handhold, and then she angles her position. 

“You ready, babe?” Artemis asks. 

I nod, losing a tear, unable to speak just now, all the sounds around me guttering into total silence as Artemis unloads our daughter into my arms that quiver with anticipation. 

Her weight melds into my chest as she leans her head readily into my neck, her arms reaching up to hold me at the shoulders. Her hands lift and fall, _pat pat._ She hums happily, the sound a single note, full of vibrancy and contentment. I lay a hand on her back, and lean my face into her soft hair. 

_This is why I’m alive,_ I think suddenly, the words shooting through my brain, _this is why I’m still here, this is why I hung in there —_

This — my daughter’s form in my arms, the sound of her voice, the enormous _purpose_ she brings, the boundless fulfillment and joy — this is everything. _Everything._

“I’m a d-d-dad!” I proclaim, and just like that, I’m bawling like a pathetic sap. 

“And it’s safe to say she knows her father, Master Dick,” Alfred observes warmly. “No need to have worried.” 

“F-faceTime is a b-b-b-blessing,” I say, attempting levity, although I keep crying like an infantile doofus. Mary hugs me, patting me here and there, leaning back every so often and pulling lightly at little fistfuls of my hair. It’s more a curious gesture that doesn’t hurt. She babbles incessantly without actual _words_ coming out, but it sure seems like she knows darn well what she’s saying, so I respond accordingly. I rub noses with her, talk to her, listen and _thrill_ as she reciprocates, her big smile lighting up her beautiful face. 

Artemis leans down, drawing Mary and me to her, kissing us both, then sitting on the arm of the chair. And it’s here we sit, close and connected, for the first time a family all together in the same room. Bruce and Alfred look on, a pair of sentinels that watch over us. 

I don’t care about the circumstances around it. This is the best day of my entire life. 

Mary explores the room after a while as we all chat easily, crawling about, pulling herself up on every standing object she can get to, taking the occasional step here and there. I swear I could watch her all day, observing her as she adventures and discovers things that seem commonplace to the dullard adult, but are of spectacular interest and wonder to her. She’s particularly interested in the biPAP machine, the one I get hooked up to on nights I have particular trouble with the respiratories, and when Artemis pulls her away, she falls into a sudden, loud fit of shrieking and flailing. 

“Wh-whoah,” I say. “That e-e-escalated qu-quickly —” 

“It always does,” Artemis chuckles, keeping Mary from smacking her head on the floor when she bridges her back into an infuriated plank. 

“Well, _that’s_ an equalizing reminder that it’s time for someone’s nap…” Bruce says, unwontedly warm and affectionate, boosting Mary up, patting her when she wails with an impressive, angry heartbreak into his shoulder. It’s strange, unaccustomed — seeing my foster dad so… unhindered and _loving,_ but it’s a change he’s worn well, and that I find I’ve taken a vast deal of comfort in over the last weeks. Something I _always_ wanted from Bruce — but never actively sought, only questing for it in passive ways that wouldn’t drive him off — was every bit as simple as a _hug_ now and then. His profound aversion to touch left something of a gulf eternally between us, symbolic of his characteristic reticence and mistrust that all too often left me hurt and bewildered. That gap, I discover, has been closing over the last months, slowly but surely growing smaller and smaller — the gradual fulfillment of something I’ve _long_ wanted. 

I don’t want them to leave, I think, but as Mary continues to cry, hitching and keening, I know I can’t ask them to stay. 

“I’m needed up top in an hour in any case,” Bruce says, _up top_ being code for the Watchtower, “so I guess this is also a reminder to me of the time…” 

“Best we take our leave, then, Master Bruce,” Alfred says. 

“I think we’re going to hang here,” Artemis says to my instant relief and joy, taking Mary from Bruce, bobbing expertly with her in clearly accustomed, habitual motions, shushing her gently and crooning into her little ear. I watch in amazement as Mary _immediately_ comes down off of her fit, pushing her face into Artemis’ neck, fussing and huffing a bit. “I need to feed her, anyway.” 

Bruce chuckles. “Hint taken. We’ll see you tomorrow, then.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” she says. “Same time, same place?” 

“You bet,” Bruce says, and I about lose my jaw when he hugs her goodbye before he turns to me to do the same. “You take care of yourself, Dick. We’ll be back tomorrow.” 

“I l-l-l-like this n-n-new leaf you’ve t-t-t-turned over, B-bruce,” I say, hugging him back, reveling in the feeling of his giant, burly, my-dad-can-beat-up-your-dad arms. 

He pulls back, and gives me one of his rare smiles. “Which one?” 

“The one wh-where you’re n-n-n-not emulating the N-n-n-north Pole,” I say, and smile when Artemis comes over to my chair to wheel me over to the recliner. After I transition into it (expertly this time — more points!), she gently scoots me over a bit to make room for her and Mary. 

Bruce chuckles, apparently not offended by the comparison. “What can I say — your daughter has that effect on people.” 

Alfred chuffs an affirmation, and hands Mary the little stuffed elephant I’d gotten her long before she was ever born. I gasp to see it, and then Artemis laughs. 

“It’s her favorite — Little Zitka, ” she tells me, and I swell with pride. “Good find, Dad.” 

I grin. “I h-have my moments.” 

“We’ll see you tomorrow, Master Dick,” Alfred says, leaning in to hug me goodbye. “Enjoy your time.” 

“Th-thanks for c-c-coming, Alfred,” I murmur, and then watch them go. 

Artemis waits until they’re gone, then settles in with Mary, still fussing, to nurse her under her sweater. Mary quiets, then settles, easing into her feeding, one hand working in the little stuffed Zitka atop the knitted fabric of Artemis’ top. 

_One of these days,_ I think, laying a hand on the gentle curve of her back, _I’m going to introduce you to a real elephant. Big Zitka. You know… when I get out of here._

This invigorates my determination to achieve Goal Two, that being to _go home,_ and I can _feel_ the resolve infusing me, lifting my heart and spirits. I promise myself, and my family, that it will be soon — _very_ soon if I can help it. 

I can, I know — and I will. However hard it’s going to be, _I will._

I can’t help but feel entranced, observing Artemis as she feeds our daughter, the action coming to her as second nature as breathing, the image every bit as transcendent as I imagined it would be. She catches me, and I give her a chagrined look, but she just smiles, kisses my cheek, and leans her head on my shoulder. I rest my head on hers, keep my hand on Mary’s back, and just relax with my family — a scene I’d envisioned _so many_ times, at last made real. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI, EVERYONE...
> 
> I am sooooooooo sorry this one took so long to post. Originally, it was going to be SO MUCH LONGER, but I ended up reordering it and cutting it down significantly. <3 (Much happier with this version of things, so that's good, yes??) :D
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! It might be a tad sloppy, had to run edits myself this time around... YIKES! XD Would also like to thank Zoeleo for her ingenious suggestion in the outline that showed up in the end result of this chapter... :D
> 
> And I promise not to be so long between updates! <3 ^_^ Much love and happy reading! <3 ^_^
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo!

**CHAPTER 4**

_Artemis_

Slade Wilson’s house is an impressive piece of real estate, a sprawling colonial at the top of a hill, its location sequestered and framed by woodlands outside Star City. Given that his criminal exploits provided his significant income, Slade laundered his money running a number of tidy businesses. On these profits, he’d not have been able to afford Bruce’s lifestyle — but this little pocket on its grassy peak, surrounded by its trees and streams and air and sunshine, it could be bought for a dollar (or a couple hundred thousand) that he could cough up for it. I glance at the polished windows, peering out at the manicured flower beds beyond, and face Rose Wilson. 

For her part, she sits across from me, a look on her face that is equal parts curious and surly, a devoted and stubborn pout on her full lips. There’s a maturity and wisdom in her expression that transcend her young years and make her girlish pigtails look wildly out of place. Her hair is so light in color it’s nearly silver — just like Slade’s. This girl, apparently, is a pile of discrepancies and contradictions — not unlike myself at her age. 

Seeing so much of myself in her, it’s hard not to feel the fires of maternity stoked in me as I sit across from Rose. I was lucky that Joey answered the door — I wouldn’t have been shocked if the… nanny? (I’m throwing out a guess — she’s clearly known by the kids, attired casually, and introduced herself to me simply as Joan), a stern-faced woman who couldn’t have been much older than Jade, sent me off packing when I came looking to talk to her twelve-year-old charge. Still, Grumpy Joan was kind enough to bring out snacks for Rose and me where we sit in the front room, which is a pleasant little parlor of sorts with a blush marble floor, clearly expensive throw rugs, cherry paneled walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, and tons of enormous plants. It’s hard to acquaint this cozy living space with Deathstroke. My mouth waters as I study the tray of food. There’s coffee for me, tea for Rose, cookies, cheese, and grapes for both of us. So many pleasing aromas — clean house, apricot tea, key lime cookies, coffee, blueberry Stilton. It hits me with the force of a barreling semi that I’m _starving._ I can’t remember the last time I ate sitting down and uninterrupted. 

“So,” she says, once I’ve deliberately allowed the silence to stretch into awkward territory to inspire her to speak. “You like, a Fed, or something?” 

I shake my head. “No, I’m not a Fed or anything. I worked with your dad once.” 

Her brows furrow. “Artemis… Hmph. What’s your last name?” 

I give her a half-smile. “Well, I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to throw me out on my butt first.” 

She reaches over for a cookie, and holds it without eating. “That kinda depends on what your last name is and why you’re here.” 

I stifle a sigh, thinking I’d love to shrug the mantle of Crock once and for all and legally take on a fresh surname — as though a new name would expunge my father’s unctuous DNA from my body by some sort of ancient name magic (nomenclancy? Ha!) I had looked forward to integrating the name and identity of “West,” longed for and anticipated the day I could sign my name and _not_ see the nominate reminder of my father staring back at me, witnessing instead the visual acceptance of the man I loved, rendering me a cleansed, new, untainted person. 

Dick had mentioned marriage more than once before everything happened. Never seeming serious about it, mind you — it felt rather as though he were testing the waters, and if I appeared favorable, well, maybe he’d start traipsing through jewelry stores and spring it on me one day. But it seemed capricious to me, an overreaction to the fact that he’d knocked me up, and I was more inclined to give it time and see how things were once the baby arrived. And Dick, in his usual way, read my cues, and never pressed the matter. I always kind of thought he’d have an allergic reaction to the concept of nuptials, anyway (which might have been a little unfair, but too late now.) 

Now I’ve wished repeatedly that I’d taken him up on the occasional lines he extended my way. And for a hundred and one reasons, not just the obvious ones. But it slams into me like a wrecking ball in this moment, the impulse to look Rose Wilson in the face and tell her, honestly, that my last name is Grayson — no longer Crock — and realizing that I can’t. 

Maybe I should have just done what Jade did and use our mother’s surname, but it’s not like anyone in the field doesn’t know of the connection between Crock and Nguyen. 

“I think you know my last name,” I tell Rose gently, “but I promise — I’m _not_ my father.” 

_It didn’t matter. You aren’t your family._

Remembering Dick’s words, ugh — there’s the torn feeling again. Missing him, missing our daughter, wondering how she’s doing with Conner and M’gann at the park today. My fingers itch to text and check in, but I’ve done that once already — any more texting and I run the risk of transmuting into the modern abomination known as a helicopter parent (oh, lawdy, save me!) It’s also about time for Dick to undergo PT, and if he hits a certain tier of physical capability and immunocapacity in the next few days, they plan on releasing him to come home — _for real come home_ — next week. I’ve been on freaking tenterhooks for _days_ since that tentative announcement. 

“Well, is it true you pulled Joey out of the factory in Smallville?” Rose asks. 

I feel a pang of mixed pride and sorrow. “Sort of — my team and I located the factory that the trafficking was moving through.” 

“You weren’t part of the group that ran the rescue?” 

I shake my head. “No. I was a part of the probing and recon.” 

“But… you’re Tigress,” she states incredulously. “Why were you just doing recon? Isn’t that job reserved for morons and losers?” 

Kids. I worm my lip in amusement. “First of all, recon is arguably the hardest part of the job, so no, it’s not for morons and losers — if anything, it’s for the toppest of top tier BAMFs. Second… well, let’s just say I was a little indisposed.” 

“Why?” 

“I was pregnant,” I answer candidly, trying not to chuckle. _“Very_ pregnant.” 

She makes a face. “Oh.” 

“My boyfriend was a part of the group that pulled your brother out of the trafficking ring, though,” I supply. 

Rose suddenly looks a lot more interested. “Wait, your boyfriend is _Nightwing?”_

I smile, definitely amused now. So she knows _some_ of the details. “Yes.” 

She blushes, and my amusement grows. 

“He beat up Sportsmaster, didn’t he?” she asks, leaning toward me. 

“Sure did,” I say proudly. “Knocked his teeth out and broke his collarbone.” 

She laughs, but inclines her head, her mirth fading after a moment. Her cheeks go red and her shoulders a little taut. “Sorry. I know, uh… I know he’s your dad.” 

I snort. “Don’t be sorry. Crock and I share DNA — that’s about it.” 

“Hmph. I take it you don’t like your dad much?” she observes. 

“No,” I tell her bluntly. “I don’t.” 

There’s a stretch of quiet as she studies me, her brows knitted. 

“Listen, Rose,” I say. “I know what you’re not telling me, and what you’re not bringing up to me. I _know_ what Sportsmaster did to your father. And… listen. There’s not much I can say about that, except that I’m so, so, _so_ sorry. But… that’s also partly why I’m here. I want to find my father — and I want him to answer for he did.” 

She dumps the cookie and scoots back in her chair, her expression gone a little stricken. She hugs her knees to her chest, then gives me a fierce, burning glare. “Okay. And what exactly do _I_ have to do with any of that?” 

“You were there, and I just want to know if there’s anything that Sportsmaster might have said that can help me find him,” I say, remaining gentle and kind as I can. When her eyes widen, I lean toward her a little. “It’s all right, Rose. I’m _never_ going to let him find out that I was here. You’ll be completely safe, okay? Dad thinks he’s a step ahead of everyone and that he can pull one over on me, but the fact is he doesn’t have a _clue_ what — or who — he’s actually dealing with.” 

She shakes her head, her face hard-set and eyes sparking with a mix of fear and determination. “Well, I _wasn’t_ there — so you could’ve saved yourself this lame-o trip out to the country to eat cookies and drink tea with some girl you’ve never even met.” 

I incline my head, giving her a knowing look. “Rose… listen. I _know_ what Sportsmaster had to have told you. I’m sure it’s the same crap he used to feed me and my sister once upon a time — that if you say anything about this, he’ll —” I pitch my voice, “come and find you, he’ll hurt you, he’ll hurt your family, your loved ones, your friends, your pets, even.” I return to my normal intonation. “That sound about right?” 

She remains silent, still glaring warily at me, although her eyes flicker. 

I sigh. “Figured as much.” I straighten a bit. “Listen to me, Rose. Sportsmaster has filled more than just your father’s plot at this point — and even if Slade Wilson and I didn’t always see eye to eye on things, I can certainly respect that he loved and cared about you and your brothers. That he was a _father_ to you, that he _gave_ a shit — trust me, I’d have traded in my bow arm for a dad that was even halfway toward a C+ average.” I let that sink in a moment as her demeanor shifts. “So your father’s death means something to me, too — not to mention all of the other slews of people he’s killed that were fathers themselves. My own daughter’s very nearly included in that number.” 

She looks askance, her frown deepening, her head tilting slightly. I decide to just go for it. Even if this info is sensitive, I have a powerful, intuitive feeling that I can trust Rose to remain mum about this meeting and everything contained within it if I ask her to. Those feelings, I’ve learned, don’t come often — and they don’t tend to be wrong. 

“He beat Nightwing — my partner, my daughter’s father — within an inch of his life, Rose. He crippled him, knocked his teeth out, bashed his head in, blinded him in one eye, and then left him to die in a fire. Dick was in a coma for _seven months._ He didn’t even see his daughter born because of my father — and as it stands, he’ll never walk again and he’ll never fully regain the sight in his eye.” Rose has gone stock still, staring in shock. “And that’s not even getting into all he’s done to my mother, to my sister — or to me. But you can trust me when I say that I am _going_ to take Sportsmaster down — and _keep_ him down.” 

There’s a long period of quiet. 

“Well… what are you gonna do to him?” Rose asks skeptically. “I mean, are you just gonna catch him and lock him up? Because _Belle Reve_ couldn’t even keep him on the inside.” 

“Let’s just say I have plans for my father, Rose,” I tell her. “But those plans are my own. Two things I can promise you, though — one, if you can tell me _anything_ about where he might be, I swear that I’ll find him before he can even give a passing thought to finding you. And moreover, that he won’t be going after _anyone else_ from that point. I won’t _let_ him.” I pause, and square my shoulders. “And second — he’ll _answer_ for what he did to your father. You have my word.” 

She sits in silence a while, looking at me, looking away, shifting, fidgeting, going still. Finally, she unfolds her legs, and leans toward me. 

“I don’t know if this will mean anything,” she says, “but he started talking on his phone when he took me to the bus station. Actually, he wouldn’t put that stupid phone down or shut up for longer than two seconds the entire drive.” She grimaces. “He thought I was asleep in the back, and… he was just going on and on about payment and rates and things like that. When he wasn’t cussing out whoever he was talking to, anyway. He made a comment about… a ring of some kind, I think? Something about there being ‘more money in the ring,’ and _that’s_ what he was going to do.” 

A thrill lances through my middle. “More money in the ring.” He had to have meant Roulette’s Fighting Ring. Actually, there’s no doubt — it wouldn’t be the first time my dad’s sought money there. I wonder for a moment why he feels a need to outsource to an underground meta MMA circuit if he’s on Luthor’s payroll — unless Lex has withdrawn jobs, and therefore funding, after my father’s botched missions. And it never takes Dad long to blow through six figures. He might be wily, a cunning survivor — but he’s not exactly _responsible._ And there are a handful of readily available explanations regarding Dad’s apparent carelessness and loose lips. First, considering the secretive nature of the ring and Roulette’s tendency toward perfect erasure of any evidence of its existence, a twelve-year-old girl flapping her gums to the cops or FBI about it arguably might not provide correct or sufficient context to direct them his way. Second, maybe he flapped his gums because he knew someone like _me_ might find him — this could very well be something of an invitation, a goad. Wintergreen said Sportsmaster’s gone off the deep end — perhaps he’s not even scared to instigate a one-on-one with Batman, now. 

Well. If that’s the case? Let me just quote Dick — “Bring it, asshole.” 

If Bruce has come this far in his investigation, though (and I’d be stupid to think he hasn’t), and he shows up at Roulette’s circuit at the same time I do… oh, _yikes._ I worm my lip, thinking I’ll have a _very_ pretty little problem on my plate. 

I settle, and smile at Rose. “Well, I know _exactly_ what that means — and that’s more than enough for me to go on. Thank you.” 

“Really?” She gives me a bit of a skeptical smirk. 

“Really,” I say. “It might not _sound_ like much, but trust me, it’s plenty. At least I’ll have some _real_ direction now.” I lean toward her. “Rose. There will be justice for your father. I promise.” 

Rose nods, and gazes at the floor, looking suddenly overwhelmingly sad. 

I reach over, and give her wrist a light squeeze. 

“I know it’s hard,” I tell her softly. “Loss and grief… they’re never easy things. But… you know, my boyfriend told me once, back when we were just friends, that they _do_ get easier to kind of coexist with as time goes by. And you take your _own_ time to get there, okay? There’s no timeline on grief or feelings.” 

She looks up at me, her eyes sheening a bit. “Did you lose somebody or something, too?” 

I nod. “I did. My boyfriend before Nightwing. He died. And… well, I kind of lost Nightwing for a while. When he was out, we didn’t know if… if he was going to wake up, or if he’d even be the person we remembered if he did. We’re lucky things turned out the way they did.” I pause, considering. “You know… Nightwing’s lost his share of loved ones, too, so… if you ever need to talk to someone, we’re both available, okay?” 

She half-smiles. “Okay.” 

“Well,” I say, rising, “guess I’d better get out of here, then. Time to work.” 

“You should at least have some of Joan’s cookies first,” Rose says. “They’re really good.” 

They smell amazing, and seeing Rose as she attacks them, I figure, well, why the heck not? 

I have a seat, and snack in companionable silence with my unexpected source while I text Jade with the information. 

******* 

Walking into the hospital, I fight to get my head on straight. It was an unimaginably long day training and assimilating a new recruit to my little nook with DI in document translation. One would think I’d be happy to have _some_ of the load taken off my desk, considering that Jack’s overseas ventures are proliferating and my email and desk are starting to look more than a little cramped, but going by today? I might rather just deal with the mounting piles of documents myself. 

The guy — Gary — is nice enough and impressively fluent in a vast amount of languages, but he can’t seem to one, stop talking about his ex-wife (or pretty much anything in general), or two, control his farts. It took all my strength initially not to bust my own gut _laughing_ (for all I know, he’s full of hot air due to some unknown medical condition — and I know damn well better than to start laughing when Dick has issues unless he laughs first), but by hour seven, I was closer to barfing than I was to giggles. I have no idea how he made it through an interview with fastidious Jack Drake. The noisy (and noxious) rectal explosions should have cleared the entire damn skyscraper before noon. I’m not even sure I want the Chinese I picked up for dinner with Dick anymore — the smell of the lo mein is vaguely reminiscent of the cloud I sat in all day. 

At least Dick will be coming home next Tuesday — a week from today, providing all looks good. I’m looking powerfully forward to having him home, but I can’t lie — removing the hospital from my never-ending list of to-dos will be nice, too. 

I see an enormous vase of flowers on the table inside Dick’s room. It’s an elaborate arrangement, clearly expensive. Dick, however, is nowhere to be found. I check the clock, and realize I’m here a little early. Traffic wasn’t as terrible as normal — he’s still in speech therapy. 

Nosy, and having nothing to do for the next fifteen minutes minus maybe pick through my social media on my phone (which, to be honest, sounds about as awesome as waterboarding), I lift the card for the flowers, just to see if it says who it’s from. 

The envelope is labeled in all caps, block letters. **_DICK._**

A spear goes through me. I recognize the penmanship, even in this exaggerated form. 

It’s my father’s. 

A shake rattles my hands as I tear the envelope open, and then that hot, seismic quivering goes into my gut and up through my chest when I pull a ream of condoms from the card’s interior. Funneling through the rubbers, I find a folded sheet of paper. Even as blinding ire blurs my sight, I yank it open, and read. 

_Hey, Dick, how’s it hanging?_

_Oh, sorry. I forgot._

_Walk away, walk away…_

_Oh, sorry. I forgot again._

There’s more, lots more, in fact, but I don’t read. My fists clench around the sheet, balling it into a wad, my hands quivering around its mass. My teeth grit to the point of snapping. My jaw locks up. I squinch my eyes shut. 

I bend, and swipe the fallen condoms off the floor. I thrust them along with the crumpled note into the bottom of my purse — I _won’t_ risk Dick or a nurse finding this shit in the trash later. Then, I open the window, and hurl the vase from it with all my strength. It careens down all six stories, shattering all over the pavement below in an explosion of glass and shorn flowers. Luckily, no one is nearby to see it (or take unlucky damage.) 

I stand, shaking, sweating, my face hot and dampening. It takes a positively _massive_ effort not to slam my fist into the wall, drive my heel into the leg of the bed, start overturning furniture. I inhale and exhale, _vying_ for calm, failing. Finally, I wrest my phone, the burner phone that I use for furtive contact with my sister, from my purse, and hammer a series of livid messages into the text window. I send them to Jade. 

If I find my father in the next five minutes, it won’t be soon enough. 

Now, I’m not just shaking and sweating — I’m so angry that I’m _crying._

Who the _hell_ does this? Who puts another human being through _so much suffering —_ and then rubs his victim’s _face_ in it, _mocks_ him, goads him? And did my father stop there? Or did he — 

Frantic now, remembering Dad’s last unanticipated drop-in, I call my mom. When she answers, my voice comes tumbling out all stunted and hoarse and shaky when I try to speak. I take a breath, clear my throat, and try again — asking Mom how things are going, if everything’s all right at home. 

“Everything’s fine, Artemis,” she tells me. “Mary’s taking a nap on my shoulder at the moment, since Brucely gave her a good workout in the backyard this afternoon, but that’s really all there is to report. I’ll give her some of that leftover ravioli for dinner when she wakes up, is that okay?” 

I close my eyes, and loose a breath. “Yeah, yeah, that’s fine — thanks for doing that, Mom.” My hand tightens on my phone. “Umm… Did you happen to get the mail today?” 

Mom confirms that yes, she did. 

“Was there… like, a _personal_ letter in it or anything?” I ask. 

“No, just bills and ads,” she answers. “Why, are you waiting for something in particular? I can keep an eye out —” 

“Oh, no, that’s okay — it’s nothing like that,” I tell her, a weight going out of my body in a wash. I inhale. “Listen, though, Dick’ll be here in a minute, so I’m going to run — I’ll be home in a little while, okay? Kiss Mary for me.” 

I hang up with Mom, and clench my teeth, gripping my phone in white knuckles. All at once, I feel dizzy and sick. I missed lunch and the lingering stink of Gary’s body gas clots in my nostrils. 

I drop my bag and phone to the floor, then ghost numbly into the bathroom. I lean a hand against the tiled wall over the toilet. I breathe in, breathe out. In, out. Over and over again. Reordering myself. Collecting myself. 

When my stomach has lapsed into a slow turning, paddling in lazy circles rather than whipping at egg beater speeds, I exhale one more time, and then yank a hank of toilet paper away from the roll. I dry my eyes and blow my nose. I make sure my hair is smoothed down. I ensure my makeup doesn’t look like I mistook my face for a birthday cake this morning. 

Then, I rush out, and find the nurse on duty, urging her _not_ to say anything about the flowers to Dick, and to kindly pass that message along. And when Dick returns, I put a smile on my face and have dinner with him, chatting easily and amiably — determined _not_ to let him in on anything of what just happened. He has enough on his plate as it is — no way am I going to let my father just plunk himself down on top of the mountain of crap that Dick’s already facing and dealing with. Dad has been, and will continue to be, _my_ job, and mine only. _My_ responsibility. Not Dick’s — certainly not Batman’s, or the League’s, the team’s, the cops’, or anyone else’s. 

So I school my features, feigning ease and contentment, and just tell Dick all about Gary — humorously, in a good-natured sort of rant. I’m genuinely happy to see that Dick, alongside laughing heartily and without hesitation at what I have to tell him, is also eating with much more interest and enthusiasm now (even as I regale him with sordid tales of graphic air biscuits and horror stories about ex-wives.) His dental implants are inbound in T-minus ten days, something I know he’s looking immensely forward to (predominantly because he’ll at last get to comfortably scratch his itch for some _real_ pizza, and not the mushed up, soft-crusted, lack of incisor-friendly crap he gets here at Mercy.) It’s soothing to see, somehow, these little improvements and steps forward — buffing the edges of what happened only a short while ago. 

We finish out the visit on the recliner, me cuddled up to his chest, watching bad TV. Dick falls asleep after a while, his breathing deep and rhythmic, comfortingly even. Odds are he’ll need oxygen at night for some time still, but the smooth, easy sound of his respiration is alleviating. I gaze at him, timing my breathing to his, reminding myself that asleep does _not_ mean comatose — and to just enjoy the sight of him, handsome and peaceful at rest, and to find solace in his easy breathing. I even go so far as to permit myself a little envy over his ability to snooze so readily these days. Sleep just doesn't come as easily for me as it used to. 

My burner phone buzzes from where it lies in my purse, now on a chair by the bed, and I about leap out of my skin and clear to the ceiling. Carefully, I disentangle myself from Dick, and pull it from its pouch. Silent, so as not to wake him, and find myself forced to explain the phone. 

A message, from Jade. 

_Next viable meetup is in Blüdhaven next Friday night. Our pal signed himself up under a pseud. Hope you’re ready to get your mitts dirty, Grasshopper, bc that means we’re signed up, too. My hubs kindly offered to watch the girls at our place._

I grit my teeth. I’m glad this reckoning will be coming so soon, but it’s also _agonizingly_ close to Dick’s return home. And as usual, here comes that awful torn feeling — to stay, or to go? What should I do — what’s the _right_ thing to do? 

I look over at Dick, sleeping in the recliner, taking in the sight of him — half-immobilized, probably a solid thirty pounds lighter than he was before he first came here in spite of the gains he’s made. I frown, gazing at his unimposing build, so _slight_ now, and it hits me with the force of a piano from the sky that he’s not practiced his martial arts in any capacity since awakening — his focus has for now been strictly on PT. “I’ll give some altered training a shot when I get home, maybe,” he’d said at one point, but that was the most we’d really discussed the matter. My chest slides into my gut. 

Dick would put up a hell of a fight, I know — but if my dad came in here looking to finish what he’d begun and Dick was unguarded, Sportsmaster would crush him without breaking a sweat. And even though I _know_ I can take my dad now — I’ve been training my _ass_ off every second I get — there’s never a guarantee I could get here in time if there wasn’t enough warning. 

Yeah. I know what the right thing is — even if it might not _seem_ like the right thing on first glance. 

_Cover?_ I send in return. 

_A friend's wedding,_ Jade replies. _Farrrrr away. ;D May have to make it an overnight thing, so bring your pump just in case._

I groan. I _hate_ that goddamn thing, but it’s necessary for things like this (unless I want to wean Mary early, and I don’t.) 

As though on cue, I feel that telltale pins-and-needles sensation, and grit my teeth. God, my tits feel like a pair of bad porno boobs — fake and hard and bulbous. I always said I wanted bigger mams, but I think I might be reconsidering that old desire. 

Well, either way, I need a Mary — and stat. Everything else is just going to have to wait. 

I page the nurse, and kiss Dick’s temple and smooth his hair. I’m relieved when he turns his face into my palm in his sleep — definitely no coma here, Mission Control. 

“One more week,” I murmur to him, then give him one more kiss on his cheek before I hurry out of the hospital. 

At home, I drop my bags and hurl my shoes from my feet with an elaborate sigh before I call out a greeting to my mother and daughter. Mary immediately zooms at lightspeed out of the next room with a squeal, hurtling on her hands and knees over the wooden floor toward me. 

I swear to God there is no day so terrible that Mary can’t make it infinitely better in a nanosecond. I bend down and lift her up, warming through and feeling instantly more at ease when her weight settles in my arms. She launches her arms around my shoulders. I cover her cheeks with kisses, smiling when she grins and pats my face, babbling joyfully in response. It still strikes me from time to time how profoundly she resembles Dick from some angles. Brucely and Peach filter in, both looking sprightly and cheerful. Apparently, better days were had at home, not a peep from Dad in these parts — _phew._ I lower Mary, and love on my pets for a few minutes before I pick my daughter back up and head into the kitchen. 

“Long day?” Mom asks, smiling from where she preps our customary evening tea. I’m unimaginably excited to have Dick home next week, but this little ritual — our tea and TV after I get home before Mary has a bath and winds down for the night — is one I’m worried will fizzle as a result. I know I’ll miss it if it passes us by. 

“You wouldn’t believe it even if I told you,” I say, play-acting levity, stifling the uptide of rage that presses at my chest and gullet when I think on my father’s monstrous gesture. 

_Later, Arty,_ I stress to myself. _Later. You’ll catch up to him later. Right now, you need to focus on Mary, and on Dick, and on Mom. And as horrible as it was, you_ can’t _tell anyone about what happened. Dick does_ not _need to be worrying about that or dealing with that right now, and doubtless it’ll get back to him if you flap your gums past Jade. Not to mention, it’ll get your doucheknob dad on everyone’s radar and_ really _throw a wrench in the gears. Get it together._

I take a breath, put on another smile, and tell Mom about Gary when we sit down to have tea in front of the television. I nurse Mary and cuddle her for a while, relaxing while Mom mainlines some classic _Twilight Zone._ Mary’s bath and bedtime go off without a hitch, my daughter asleep before I’m even finished reading to her before laying her down in her crib. I smile down at her, excited to bring her in to see Dick tomorrow for dinner after work. Father and daughter are already peas in a pod. It does my heart good to see, each interaction of theirs that I witness taking on something of a medicinal quality. 

I say good night to Mom, then, and turn in with what has become an accustomed sense of dread, wearing one of Dick’s old tee-shirts and a pair of pajama shorts. I’ve come to loathe this time of night — _bedtime._ I remember when sleeping came easily — the good old days. 

I stretch out and shut off the light, and just say a prayer. 

No dice. I lie on my back in bed, staring at the ceiling — as ever, too wired to have even a speck of hope that I’ll drop off at any point. My thoughts flit through my mind like darting animals, all of them too fast to grasp hold of for more than a moment, my heartbeat obnoxious and booming in my ears — _thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump._ When I do sleep, it’s a hypnagogic half-doze — one foot in the waking world, one foot only just out — the very best I can hope for these days. My body doesn’t even seem to remember how to fall under. 

Thinking on Dad, I wonder if I’ll _sleep_ when he’s gone — deeply and totally, the whole night through, without incident. If his removal from the board will ease my vigilant, wary mind enough that I’ll finally relax, at last able to let go of this permeating _watchfulness,_ and permit myself the insecurity of sleep. 

God, I hope so. 

I close my eyes, and do my best to let go. 

Next Friday. 

Next Friday, and this nightmare will be over. 

It _has_ to be. 


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5**

_Dick_

Good Lord — did I _always_ get this carsick? 

Okay, that’s a rhetorical question — but right now, I _really_ feel like I’m about to hurl, sitting in the backseat of Artemis’ Audi. I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, waging a dogged battle with my gorge as it stubbornly rises. My stomach spins and flips like it’s home to a happy dolphin. My mouth waters and my head swims. I lean back in the seat, staring out the window, struggling to assimilate my bearings and even out my equilibrium. 

I will _not_ throw up on the way home, I tell myself over and over again, as though I’m a reprimanded schoolkid writing lines on the chalkboard for detention. I will _not_ throw up on the way home. I will _not_ throw up on the way home — 

I swallow, and regret it when a lump in my throat rises to my ulula, causing a hitch in my stomach. 

Oh, no. 

“Arty,” I say, breaking her off mid-sentence, the sentence I haven’t been able to pay proper attention to, “c-c-c-can you p-p —” 

Too late. Up it comes. Damn stutter — 

I clap my hands over my mouth, holding back the upsurge the best I can, while Arty makes an exclamation and promptly darts across three lanes of traffic to pull onto the shoulder. She leaps out of the car, heedless of the traffic that passes by scarcely a few feet away, and makes like this is a Chinese Fire Drill at Flash Fam speeds. Swiping the door open, she wrangles with my seatbelt and supports me as I lean halfway out of the car. And with all that out of the way, I just ralph _everywhere._ I have to fight not to put too much weight on Artemis, or throw up on her, or fall out of the car while I emulate Mr. Creosote from _Monty Python and the Meaning of Life._ I didn’t think I ate _that_ much this morning — where in the hell is all this coming from? I’m pretty sure I just upchucked a box of Milk Duds from five years ago. 

“…Well, that’s a f-f-first —” I mutter, or try to, anyway. I end up dry heaving before the last word is out. When _that_ slows down, I sag back against the carseat. “Ugh. H-happy Homecoming.” I take a breath, and release it slowly. “Sorry about this, A-a-a-a — Arty.” 

She shakes her head. “Oh, Dick, don’t worry about it — God knows you’ve held my hair back for me a time or ten. I mean… this is kind of like old times, right?” 

I chuckle weakly even if I don’t feel like it, appreciating her effort, and wipe tears and sweat from my face. Artemis reaches under the passenger seat in front of me to get me a bottle of water from its customary in-car hidey-hole. I hold it in one quivering hand a moment, not drinking. I’m afraid the act of swallowing will turn the hose back on. I focus on meditative breathing for a moment, the sounds of the cars passing by overwhelming in my thrumming ears. 

“You going to be okay, babe?” Artemis asks, eyeing me in growing concern, her brows knitting beneath the soft, side-swept fringe of her hair. There’s something unreadable in her gray eyes as she reaches over to lay a hand on my forehead. Her frown deepens. 

I nod, and try to smile at her through my churning guts. “All g-g-gravy, Captain — just a minor spot of s-s-s-ssss-seasickness.” I inhale, lean back, and close my eyes. “Let’s just get home.” 

Regardless of whether I feel like masticated crap and can’t make it through a thirty-minute drive without puking, I’m anxious to get home. I miss the house desperately now — and Mary more so. I hold my breath a moment, rallying. I _have_ to get it together. I don’t want Artemis to call Dr. Thompkins about this. However well-intentioned she might be, that call runs the risk of having me stuck in the hospital for another week. And unnecessarily to boot — I _swear_ I’m just carsick. 

Artemis buckles my seatbelt for me (whoops — I’d totally forgotten about it), then gets into the front. She hands me a pack of Altoids. 

“You ready?” she asks, and when I give the okay, off we go. 

As I suck determinedly on a mint and sip at the water, I can’t help but notice that Artemis has gone quiet, seeming tense and introspective. Even through the fog of queasiness, I pick up on her shifted mood. She had been sunny and sprightly when she came to at _last_ cart me away from Mercy like a white knight upon a shining steed, but now it’s like someone’s told her that Santa Claus crashed his sleigh and there’s no Christmas this year. She even thumps a message rapidfire into her phone at a red light — a highly unusual breach in her “drive safely” habits. 

“You o-o-okay, Arty?” I ask as she pulls into our subdivision. 

“Umm — yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” she says quickly, whipping her head back and forth in a kind of exaggerated shake, her ponytail following suit in rosy-blonde sweeps. “Uh… More to the point, how are _you?_ Are you feeling okay?” 

“Oh, I’ll l-l-live,” I assure her, half-smiling, my spirits lifting as the familiar, sorely missed sights go by outside the window — all landmarks leading to _home._ “I’m just c-c-c-carsick — it’ll pass.” 

She frowns momentarily at me over her shoulder. 

“Okay, then…” she says, although she sounds a little unconvinced, and turns back around. 

A jolt of excitement goes through me when we pull into our driveway — the place is just how I remember it, with the same landscaping and trees and flowers. The enormous camphor tree — Totoro’s Tree, as Artemis named it — still rises from the center of the front yard like a sentinel, guarding the house and land, protecting its denizens. Its penumbra rises higher than the roof and other trees, its shade cozy and safe. The windows and trim are the same, the shade of the leaves still dappling the vivid green of the yard in soft shadows. It’s comforting to see, everything looking so much the _same._ I notice that at some point, Artemis added a few potted plants to the front porch. It’s then the sight of the ramp hits me, now unveiled as we pass the thick trunk of the camphor tree. 

The ramp. For my chair. Artemis had to have had it installed before I came home. My heart sinks along with my bilious gut. 

In the next moment, though, I quell the unexpected pang of sorrow that rises before an upsurge of distress. 

_No time for self-pity, Boy Moron,_ I tell myself, soundly stomping the growing emotions. _Save all that crap for later. You’re home now — which is what you’ve wanted and worked toward since finally seeing Mary — so_ enjoy _it._

“Well, here we are…” Artemis turns to me, and smiles her gorgeous smile. “You ready, babe?” 

“B-b-born ready,” I say, smiling back. “N-n-n — not gonna lie, though, a nap sounds pretty g-g-good.” 

Artemis’ expression doesn’t fade, although that nameless something again flits across her face. She shuts off the engine outside the garage and hops out of the car, without complaint removing Yolo Swaggins from the trunk. She gets the chair unfolded and set, swings the bag with my clothes and toiletries from the hospital over her shoulder, then meets me as I open my door. I do my best to help her along as she shifts me from the car to the chair, and stall her when she goes to wheel me in. 

“I got this, Tiger,” I tell her warmly, and she nods, falling into step beside me as we enter the house. 

Just as I’m about to inhale the familiar scents (overpowering in this first moment of entry) and assimilate the alleviating, long-anticipated feeling of _coming home_ — the lights go on, and I come jarringly face-to-face with — 

Oh, dear God. _Everybody._

All of my friends and family stand under an enormous **WELCOME HOME** banner. I don’t think there’s a single face missing, even though it’s a Tuesday and theoretically at least a _handful_ of the people in the room should have work or school. Bruce, Jason, Tim, Alfred, and Paula stand in the foreground in the middle, Mary propped on Jason’s hip. Barbara stands by him. Conner and M’gann are here, Kaldur and Zatanna, too. Roy, Jade, and Lian. Raquel and her family. Jaime and Bart. Garfield. Cassie. Even Dinah, Ollie, and Clark are here. 

There’s a part of me that’s happy to see them, that’s excited and moved that they’ve all dropped everything in their busy lives to be here — but there’s another part of me that sizzles and sinks like a burning stone, simmering hot in the lurching cold of my stomach. 

Seeing them all _standing,_ so upright and towering over me, moving freely, grinning with all their teeth — 

It all slams into me now — hard enough that if I were on my feet, I’d be taken right off them. How utterly _emasculated_ I am, how deformed, how grotesquely toothless — especially looking at Conner with his burly shoulders and classic movie star good looks, Kaldur with his reaching height and quiet power. How much mass have I lost, I wonder suddenly, even after the muscle I’ve managed to put back on through PT? My legs have already gone to thin, spindly sticks, no secret in my baggy jeans, and I’d probably fit shirts I wore when I was thirteen, for crying out loud — _comfortably_ fit them — 

I feel sick. Like… Two seconds from revisiting more meals from years long gone sick. I have to hold my breath lest I humiliate myself in front of every single person I’ve waited to see for months sick. 

I do, but it only does so much as my ears thrum, blotting out the sounds of their cheering voices, echoing through the vaulted ceilings. My chest hitches a little. I feel Artemis’ hand on my shoulder. 

“You okay?” she murmurs to me. 

I nod, and vow to muster. Even if I’m shriveling up like an old leaf inside, I’ll never let it show. Everyone’s here to welcome me home, and I’ve wanted to see them every bit as much as I wanted to leave the hospital. Maybe _this_ wasn’t what I had in mind (frankly, I’d have preferred to have my dental implants first), but I can’t deny _wanting_ to see my friends and teammates, or that I dwelled on it often. Outwardly to Artemis, too — probably why she orchestrated this whole thing. 

I smile — not fully opening my mouth — and wheel toward everyone, squelching the anxiety and putting my best face forward. 

With his crooked grin, Jason kindly hands Mary to me right away. Briefly forgetting my distress, I gratefully and happily accept her from him with a greeting. I’m past ready now to just be a _dad_ in my own house. I hug Mary, kiss her cheek, nuzzle her soft hair — ugh, _God,_ I missed her. For a moment, I enjoy the sense of instinctive completion being near my daughter brings — as though something that was amiss before has finally been righted. I prop the baby on my lap once I’ve gotten my share of hugs and the baby version of kisses (a little sloppy, and a lot cute.) There’s something soothing about Mary’s weight against my chest and her little happy baby babbles that curbs the tide of duress and keeps it at bay, and I exhale. 

Barbara and Zatanna land on me first like a pair of birds, both hugging me at the same time, one from either side. Feeling their arms around my shoulders, hearing their voices, catching the scents of their familiar perfumes — my self-consciousness and embarrassment and lingering nausea rescind even more. I just hug them back, overcome with feeling to see them now, tears pricking at my eyes as they kiss my cheek and forehead and fuss over my overgrown hair, mindful of Mary on my lap. Like Tim, like Jason — they don’t regard me any differently. I can tell they’re just as glad to see me now as I am to see them. 

“Dickie, you have _no_ idea how much we’ve missed you,” Zatanna says, gently grasping my face in her hands. “Seriously. _No idea._ Barb and I were about to default to magic and Bat toys to sneak into your hospital room if you got held up there any longer.” 

“S-s-s-sorry,” I say ruefully, smiling up at them both. “G-g-god, I’ve m-m-m-missed you guys, t-t-t-too.” I grimace, _really_ aware of my stutter now. “I h-hope Arty w-w-warned you — I’m not the m-m-m-most effectual c-c-c-c-communicator these d-d-days.” 

Barbara waves a hand and shakes her head. “Well, it’s a good thing there’s not a quiet person in this room, then, minus _maybe_ Tim and Kaldur. But even they aren’t what I’d call exactly taciturn.” She leans down and gives me one more squeeze, that I go all in on before she lets go. “In other words, don’t worry about it, Dick. Honestly, we’re just glad to have you home and safe. If you don’t feel like talking, I’m sure everyone else will happily fill the silence for you.” 

I laugh as M’gann and Conner approach me now, and really have to stifle my shock when _Conner hugs me._ He and I have been friends for centuries — sometimes close, sometimes not — and I don’t think we’ve ever once shared a dude hug. I think I’ve hugged _Kaldur_ more than Conner. 

“H-how’s honorary u-u-u-uncling been?” I ask when he draws away, noting how Mary immediately smiles up at him and starts yacking away. I turn my attention to M’gann as she lays a companionate hand on my shoulder. “And a-a-aunting…” 

“Busy,” Conner answers. “I’m just glad we are who we are — she definitely inherited your energy. Girl keeps us moving _all day.”_

“In a good way,” M’gann chuckles. “She’s just super curious about _everything_ , is all. Really, it’s been a lot of fun. I actually wish Artemis would ask us to watch her more often.” 

“Be careful what you wish for, M’gann,” Artemis cracks, “because in this case? Oh, trust me — ask and ye shall _immediately_ receive.” 

We laugh a bit, then Roy and Jade come next with Lian — who’s _huge._ I might not have recognized her, she’s grown so much. I can hardly believe it, but she’s still carting around that stuffed hippo I got for her at the Woodland Lights festival. She also started preschool and has a million tales to tell me about it, sharing space on my lap with Mary (who clearly knows her extremely well, since she grins and starts babbling even as Lian does) and talking up a storm about loving story time. 

To my further joy, Princess makes an appearance, bounding lickety-split down the steps, tail up and eyes bright. She clumsily leaps atop the arm of my chair, planting her front paws on my thigh, issuing her little soundless meow and rubbing her face against mine. I hold her to me alongside Mary, chuckling when she seems completely heedless of the baby, who pulls — _hard —_ on big fistfuls of her fur. I’m happy to see Brucely is here, too, a reminder that we’ll be living with Paula. I give his head a good rubbing when he rests his front paws on the Yolo Swaggins’ arm, and miss Wally with a tremendous jolt. 

This goes on the down the line, until everyone’s come up to say their his and welcome homes. With each reception, I find my ease and comfort grow, and I’m fairly settled by the time Clark moves on to talk to Bruce. 

When Mary gets antsy, I put her down, watching with a warming pride as she easily sets her feet and then shifts into position to crawl. She moves at a rapid pace from person to person, clearly comfortable with everyone here in the great room, which, much like the outside of the house, looks just how I remember it. Same wooden floor, same throw rugs, same plants, same furniture. I inhale — it smells the same, minus the teased, mingling aromas of the snacks laid out. I try to ignore my stomach as it turns in an unhappy circle. 

I don’t talk much, mostly just listening to conversations, content to absorb the missed nearness of my loved ones. Mostly the party consists of catching me up on things, alongside food and a short game of Trivial Pursuit. 

I can’t ignore my mounting fatigue as time ticks by, however, or the fact that my stomach just won’t settle — even when I concentrate my breathing, subtly inhaling to counts of four through my nose, and out through my mouth to the same count. When the game ends, I detach from Artemis in search of some Sprite, painstakingly navigating my chair through the room. I’m glad the place is spacious. 

“Well, tell me,” Kaldur says kindly as he joins me by the kitchen island, also in apparent search of libations, “how are you feeling, my friend?” 

I exhale. “L-lousy, honestly.” I smile up at him. “But m-m-mustering.” 

He smiles in return, his calm, ministerial disposition appreciated right about now. I’m getting a little anxious for this party to end — I’m _beyond_ exhausted, barely able to hold my head up and my eyes open at this point, and I would like to have _some_ energy left over to help Artemis with cleanup and Mary when it’s all over. And that’s all sounding increasingly Herculean the more time goes by — just rolling around the room has my arms burning and weak. 

“As you have the admirable tendency to do,” Kaldur says. 

I chuff a bit. “Y-you know me. At least th-that hasn’t changed.” 

His smile widens. “Indeed.” He hands me a can of Sprite from the cooler. “Truly — it is good to have you back. You have been sorely missed, my friend.” 

I lean my head back, can in hand. “It’s good to be b-b-back. Although, I c-can’t lie, dude — I’m f-f-feeling pretty tired. Maybe I should have a C-c-coke instead.” 

Kaldur obligingly takes the Sprite, then rummages through the cooler to turn up a can of Coke. He hands it to me as I thank him. 

I pop it open and sip, then let go a sigh. “…G-guess I’m n-not the life of the p-p-p-party anymore, huh.” 

He gives my shoulder a press. “No one is worried about that, Dick, and you must not worry about it, either. You are well, and you are home — _that_ is what matters.” 

I nod. “Yeah, I g-g-guess. J-just got to focus on that. I’m h-home.” I look up at him. “So h-how’s life as the f-f-fairy godfather?” 

“Oh, very good,” Kaldur answers, smiling fondly over at Mary, where she strafes along the end table nearby. The motion elicits delight from a cluster of guests, all of them encouraging her in her movements. “She is a wonderful child.” 

I just smile, watching her for a moment in quiet. 

“So do you have plans from here?” Kaldur asks. “As to what you wish to do once you are settled?” 

I pause, and consider. 

For whatever reason, I have to wrangle a wash of emotion over this question, and the ramifications of it. I suppose I could try to work from home again for the BPD and DI, but not only am I unsure if the aphasia will permit for me to do so, I also can’t pretend that my jobs will just be sitting around waiting for me after all this time. It’s been nearly a year since _the incident_ (whatever it was) at this point. 

I realize it’s my job now to _adjust._ To go through my occupational therapy, to have my surgeries and recuperate from them. To get used to navigating the house with Yolo Swaggins. To keep up with speech and physical therapies, to make it to my doctor’s appointments. 

I probably won’t be helping Artemis clean, I think, noting that I’m too fatigued to even wheel myself around comfortably — my arms are like jelly now, and going shaky. Nor will I be putting Mary to bed, minus maybe reading to her before she’s down for the night. The truth is I’ll probably just end up borderline overdosed on antispasmodics so I can sleep without involuntarily jerking muscles keeping me up, and pass out with oxygen until mid-afternoon tomorrow before the sun even goes down. 

I’m “back” — but I’m essentially nothing more than a professional patient now, someone in need of full-time, round-the-clock care. Not unlike an overgrown man-child, whose sole task it is to lie around like a bump on a log and be cared for. It’s not that much different from the hospital — I have a daytime caregiver who will be here every weekday and I’ll still have therapies and treatments to undergo. I won’t even be a stay-at-home dad, for God’s sake. While Artemis goes to work, she will continue to place Mary in daycare, regardless of whether Paula and I are home. 

A sense of _overwhelmingness_ pours over me, threatening to bury me and hold me under its suffocating surface. I look down, and clasp my forehead, which is all at once pounding fit to explode. 

I thought I’d be happy to be home. Instead, I just feel like my daily life has spontaneously become insurmountable, nonsensical. At least at the hospital I always knew what to expect, and that my routine wouldn’t change — 

I take a breath, and exhale. I try to quiet my teeming stomach. I blink against my aching head. 

_Get it together, Dickhead —_

“Are you all right?” Kaldur asks. 

“Yeah,” I lie, and give him the best smile I can manage — again, not showing my teeth (gums, more like.) “I d-d-don’t really know what I p-plan on doing yet — I hadn’t really th-thought about it m-m-m-much. I’m… n-not really sure there’s m-much I _can_ do.” I pause. “S-s-sorry. That s-sounded a lot more self-p-p-pitying out l-loud than it did in my h-h-h-h — h-h —” I inhale. “Head.” I force myself to brighten, and inject some levity into my voice. “I guess m-maybe I’ll just g-get settled f-first and figure it o-out from th-th-there? If there’s anything to f-f-f-figure out beyond being a full-time p-p-p-p-professional patient until my e-e-end of days, anyway.” 

Kaldur gazes serenely down at me, a comprehending look in his steady gaze. It’s one that doesn’t communicate pity, but rather an encompassing understanding. 

“Take your recovery one step at a time, Dick,” Kaldur says. “Things like this require time above all — which can be the hardest thing to give, but is always by the far the best and wisest thing.” 

I nod, then frown when I catch the sound of Artemis’ voice filtering in from the hallway beyond the living room. She’s out of sight, likely not even realizing that I can hear her, especially given that her voice is hushed. I know it’s wrong to eavesdrop, but now I’m tuned in, I can’t seem to stop myself listening — in my defense, though, that’s a natural response when you catch people talking about you. (Right?) 

“I don’t know, M’gann,” Artemis sighs. “Maybe this wasn’t the greatest idea, after all.” 

“Oh, Arty, come on,” M’gann says gently. “Of course it was a good idea — you mentioned he missed everyone, and likewise, we’ve all missed him.” 

“I know,” Artemis says. “But… I don’t know, you don’t think it’s too much?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“He just… he tires out so much faster now, M’gann. And I had _no_ idea so many people would show up on such short notice… I mean, it’s a _Tuesday,_ for crying out loud. Plus he got sick on the way home, and… I don’t know.” Another sigh. “Maybe this just should have waited another week or two.” 

“Well, it made sense on first glance to plan it for today,” M’gann consoles her. She goes on, although I stop listening to them now, closing off my ears to their voices with a stab in the guts. I feel like I might get sick again. 

_He tires out so much faster now —_

I sip determinedly at the Coke, quelling the queasiness, and take a breath. Kaldur’s talking. With an effort, I pull it together, and listen to him. 

“I do want you to know that, should you feel up to the task, there is an enormous pile of things on my desk that you are far-better suited to than I am, and that I promise are _not_ limited to the horrors of paperwork,” he’s saying. I chuckle a little, comforted somewhat, as he smiles. “And I cannot realistically ask the others to complete it all. Long and short, Nightwing… I understand how you might be feeling at the moment, but you always have a role on this team. Whenever you feel ready.” 

Nightwing. 

Just hearing that name spoken is a spear in my heart. I clench my remaining teeth, and close my eyes as my gullet fills. 

What role could I possibly have? How can Kaldur look at me and still see me as Nightwing, still call me by that name? What could I possibly do that the others can’t handle at this point? I can’t even make it through a ride in the car without hurling, or a game of Trivial Pursuit without feeling like I’m going to fall on my face — 

As Artemis and M’gann return to the main room, Mary, still strafing back and forth along the end table a couple of feet away from Kaldur and me, abruptly loses her footing and goes down with a profound smack on her front. A hush falls over the room in the wake of her sudden forward dive, and then she bursts into a torrent of sobs. 

I go to her at once, ditching the Coke and wheeling to her even while Kaldur does the same. Artemis hurries over from the entryway, and Jason rushes up from where he stands beside the sofa close by. Winding up by Jason, I bend toward my daughter the best I can, mindful of what my body is doing, while I extend my arms to Mary. 

She crawls, crying — but not to me. She passes me and goes right to Jason. 

He picks her up with a practiced ease, his back going straight and steady as he rises, towering over where I sit in my stupid chair. 

“Awww, it’s okay, little lady,” he says gently, bouncing her a little in his arms. “That fall wasn’t so bad… still, you tell your uncle all about it, huh?” 

He coos to her, and my daughter cuddles into his burly chest as she cries — seeking comfort from him. Her uncle. My brother. 

If I felt a stab earlier, it’s a bolt of lightning I feel now. 

This one image — my daughter opting for her uncle in favor of me, her father, in a moment of duress — reminds me of just what my role in her life has been. 

I haven’t been her father. I’ve been an absentee, an uncommon, far-off presence that maybe she’s fond of, maybe she associates good things with — but I haven’t been her _father._

And when the chips are down, she’ll reach for her uncle — the man who _has_ been there since her birth — and probably anyone else over me, too. 

I’d lie if I said I didn’t feel the terrible bite of jealousy, too. 

I grit my teeth, tears pricking at my eyes. My gorge pushes steadily upward. I hold my breath, watching as Artemis, coming up to Jason now, relieves him of Mary. The sight of my daughter reaching at once for her mother, eager to be held by Artemis, brings me no comfort. There’s no consolation in knowing that at least Mary prefers her mother to everybody. And there’s no solace in the fact that Artemis gets our child appeased in under a few seconds flat. 

I’ve wanted to do that. I’ve wanted to do that for _so long._

I barely notice when Artemis comes to stand by, Mary poised comfortably on her hip, the girl’s head pillowed on her shoulder. For my part, I just sit in silence for a duration, holding back all the surging feelings and distress. I smile when it’s appropriate. I reply when it’s necessary. I respond when engaged. 

But the truth is, I just want to be left alone for a while. I need to throw up, cry, and just _sleep —_ and hopefully reset my system, now thrown hopelessly out of whack. It’s not usual for me to feel this way, normally I thrive on and am comforted by company and interaction — but here we are, and I can’t ignore the mounting want to be left to my own miserable devices any more than I can ignore the roiling illness in my stomach. 

Artemis says something to Roy and Jade about me being home, that she’s overjoyed — 

“Yep,” I interject rudely, my mouth running as though on autopilot, “n-n-n-now you’ve got _two_ babies to take care of. What a j-joy!” 

The words might have been construed as a somewhat self-deprecating joke at another time, a humorous effort to make light of things — but they’re plain to read now. Angry, snide, resentful, irritable. My voice is dripping with so much bitter sarcasm it shocks even _me._ An awkward, discomfited silence comes over the room. 

Artemis pauses, her mouth a little slack and her eyes gone large as she looks down at me in the wake of these words. Tim thins his lips and clears his throat. Bruce straight-up _scowls_ at me. Zatanna’s heavy brows lift, Barbara’s jaw sets, M’gann looks stricken. As for Jade, standing right in front of me, her eyes locked on mine, she looks as though her next order of business is to place my chair in heavy traffic and allow me to fend for myself. 

_Damn it, you jerk…_ I berate myself internally, not knowing in this moment how to rectify my outburst, opting _not_ to check the expressions of the others. _Why would you say that… seriously, why?_

“Ohh-kay,” Artemis says, an affected lightness in her voice as she gathers herself. “Guess it’s about time I put Mary down…” 

And just like that, the party disperses. It’s all hugs goodbye, efforts at clean-up, well wishes, see-you-laters, glad-you’re-homes. A bilious clot of compunction sits in my throat the whole while, the lump of self-reproach and guilt the size and consistency of a hard-packed cotton softball. 

Alfred is the last to exit the house. He pauses by me before he does, reaching down to envelop me in his strong hold. I hug him in turn, closing my eyes against his collared shirt, shutting out everything around me in the familiar safety of his embrace. 

“I understand this is overwhelming right now, Master Dick,” he tells me gently, his voice quiet. “But for what it’s worth… I know you will overcome this, just as you have all the obstacles before it. I believe in you — as does Miss Artemis.” 

I hold my breath against the tears that threaten themselves, holding onto Alfred for a long, long time. At last he withdraws, squeezes my hands, and makes his way to the foyer. 

I hear him speaking in murmurs with Artemis, then there is a moment of quiet, presumably spent in a hug much like the one he just gave me. 

Finally, the door shuts, leaving just Artemis, Mary, Paula and me in the house now. Artemis sighs audibly. Then, she comes back into the living room, places Mary in front of the television, and turns on a program for her. I just sit a ways off unspeaking, my discomfort and self-condemnation increasing as Artemis lifts a garbage bag and starts back in on cleanup. Paula wheels in from the kitchen and moves to help her. 

My head thrums and circles. My gut accelerates in its churning. I watch Mary through my blurring half-vision as she rests on her back, focusing on the TV. She’s sleepy now, her eyes going heavy, her fists scrubbing at them every so often. The pressure around my chest tightens as I look on her in silence. 

Before anything else can happen, before I can open my mouth and make things even worse than they already are, I wheel into the first floor half-bathroom. My chair barely fits within this one’s tight confines, but with an effort, I make it work. I shut the door behind me. 

I lean over the bowl, and making an atrocious mess all across the seat, I repeatedly get sick until all my limbs are numb and shaking and I’m drenched in sweat. I sit back when I’m through, resting my head against the back of my chair, and breathe. In, out. In, out. With quivering hands, I clean the seat, and flush. 

Then, I just sit, quiet, unmoving. 

Happy Homecoming. 

******* 

I hear Mary cry sometime after midnight, the sound of her wailing pulling me out of my restless doze. I open my eyes, blinking, the moonlight through the window illuminating the white of the ceiling. Artemis is already sitting up, pushing the covers aside and swinging her feet to the floor. 

I try to hoist myself onto my elbows the best I can on the incomprehensibly soft mattress and just wind up sinking into the overload of comfy pillows. It’s so different from the hospital bed, I think, where I could have bounced a marble up through the ceiling off the mattress’ surface. 

“You need h-help, babe?” I ask, resolved to make up for my unintended scene (scenes) earlier. 

Artemis shakes her head. “No, honey, I got this. Trust me, I’ve got it down to a science at this point.” She yawns, and pushes her hair over her shoulder. “You just go back to sleep, okay?” 

I sigh, and try not to feel completely useless as she gets up and pads into the hall. The hallway light goes on, its whispers of yellow seeping into the bedroom through the half-open door. I stare up at the ceiling, wondering if there’s _anything_ I can do to make up for earlier. 

I snapped at Artemis again — big time. After the party. 

The afternoon and evening following the get-together passed peacefully enough, none of us discussing much of anything. I helped finish cleaning, pushing through my own enormous fatigue and Artemis’ protests. I was determined to absolve myself of my unintended outburst that made everyone so uncomfortable after so much time spent apart, and that honestly had _no_ place whatsoever after Artemis went to the trouble of setting the party up. I spent the remainder of the day with Mary — playing with her, cuddling her through her nap, reading through my stutter to her. Princess joined us for most of it, lying curled nearby or against where Mary sat on my lap, Brucely the same. Artemis and Paula both meandered about, quietly chatting on occasion. All conversations were subdued and underlaid with uncertainty and tension. Eventually, they asked what I wanted for dinner, which was a whole lot of nothing, but ended up being Indian takeout that stuck in my throat and congealed in my gut. 

Artemis put Mary to bed, and while she did, I decided to get myself ready to turn in, as well. To say I was exhausted after the events of the day would understate it. I mentioned to Paula that I was calling it a night, and given it was far earlier than anticipated, she explained in Artemis’ stead to me how to use the motorized lift up the steps. 

“Thanks,” I said. “Listen… umm. About… earlier. I… sh-sh-shouldn’t have said what I d-d-did.” 

“Dick,” she said, squeezing my hand, “it’s all right. I hope you’re aware that no one expects you to be a constant bucket of sunshine through this.” 

“Artemis seems r-r-r-really upset ab-bout it, though,” I observed unhappily. “And she sh-sh-should be. I acted like a j-j-j-jerk.” 

“That’s a little harsh, _anh yêu,”_ Paula said kindly. “But if you feel that way… maybe talk to her about it, and see how she feels. It might surprise you.” 

I nodded, and made my way upstairs, moving carefully through the second floor hall. 

Artemis came into the master bathroom as I prepared to toilet myself. I had barely gotten half-stripped to give this whole mental training thing a shot and get changed when she opened the door. 

I made a wordless exclamation, folding my arms over my naked torso, embarrassed by my scarred, shrunken body — equally not too thrilled by the prospect of having been caught in a more compromising position, either. Not to mention, Artemis hadn’t seen me without a shirt since I woke up, and truthfully, I’d wanted to keep it that way for a while. At least until I’d gained a little more mass and looked somewhat more like my former self with my shirt off. 

“Oh, sorry, babe — I didn’t know you were up here,” she said a little sheepishly. 

I wrestled with an overload of unaccustomed self-consciousness, feeling my cheeks and ears go hot. “That’s okay. I’m j-j-just, uh — just going to t-t-toilet and then ch-change.” 

She half-smiled with a nod. “Okay. I take it Mom showed you how to use the lift?” 

“Yeah,” I assured her. “Not m-m-m-much to it, really.” 

She nodded, and stepped toward me. “Okay, good. Here, let me give you a hand with this — Dr. Thompkins said —” 

I shook my head and held a hand up, cutting her off. “No, th-that’s okay, I g-got it.” 

She frowned at me, her brows knitting. “You’re not supposed to toilet at home without assistance for a while, Dick.” 

I frowned right back, my embarrassment swelling. “Well, it’s n-n-n-not as if it’s r-r-rocket science, Arty. I’ll be f-fine.” 

“Fair enough, but doctor’s orders,” Artemis said, reaching out to me again. 

“I _said_ I’ll be fine,” I snarled, forcefully that time, my shoulders tightening and hunching. “Jesus Ch-ch-christ, I’m not a fucking ch-child — I can do th-this much, at l-l-least.” 

Artemis straightened, clearly taken aback, a silver spark lighting in her gray eyes. She was unspeaking as she stared down at me. 

“S-sorry,” I said, surly and not sounding as repentant as I felt. “I j-j-just — l-look. It’s p-p-probably a good idea I get used to d-d-doing this stuff on my o-own. Dr. Th-thompkins said as m-m-much, too.” I heaved a sigh. “That’s all. I’ll c-c-call you if I n-n-need help. Okay?” 

She straightened, her jaw working. 

“All right,” she said. “You see the cord here by the toilet? Pull it if you need anything.” 

In a feeble, last-ditch effort to salvage the situation as she turned to leave, I said, “L-looks like an old-school way to f-f-flush the toilet.” 

She just glanced over her shoulder, already on her way out of the room. 

I sank in my chair, and pressed a hand into my forehead. 

_Damn it, why did I say that to her…_

Past done and hating myself, I decided screw the toileting business, pulled the tee I’d selected on, and got myself in bed, pressing the cannula into my nostrils and applying the appropriate oxygen setting. 

I didn’t sleep well up to now, however. Most of the night, I’ve been restless, half-sleeping at best. Mary’s cries woke me immediately. Artemis hadn’t seemed to be faring much better. 

I can hear the beloved, familiar sound of her smokey voice from where she soothes Mary down the hall, and make up my mind to apologize up, down, left, right, and center when she comes back in — for what good it will do. 

I take a breath, and shiver. I’m inordinately cold, the chill welling from my core and spreading through the sensory parts of my body like quick-reaching hands. 

It’s not unusual to feel chilled, though, these days, even if rooms are warm, like this one. I reach down to pull the blankets up, and pause. 

I frown, handling a palmful of the coverlet and sheet. They’re wet, soaked, even, although I don’t know why or how. I pull myself up a little, now fully awake, and turn on the bedside lamp. It’s now the punch of ammonia assaults my nostrils, and looking down, I see the darkening outline of a puddle that spreads under my middle and legs. 

I freeze, staring, uncomprehending, even if I _know_ what I’m looking at. 

_Oh, no…_

I pull the sheets away, and sag in dismay. 

I hadn’t changed before I’d gotten in bed — I’d completely forgotten to. I was so focused on everything else that it had totally blown over the top of my head that I needed a change of drawers. And as I lay half-sleeping, I wet right through the stupid adult diaper still tacked to my drenched, unfeeling hips. 

_Fuck —_

I tune into the sound of Artemis’ voice, engaged now in reading a story to Mary. 

I can fix this. There’s time. I can fix this — 

Sheets are in the closet in the bathroom. Bags under the sink. Laundry chute behind the toilet. The bag with my stuff from the hospital — those damn Depends included — is by the basin. Okay. One step at a time — 

I reach over to grasp Yolo Swaggins and haul myself into the seat from the bed. 

Except the chair shoots in nearly a full circle on one wheel, and I wind up on my face with a mouthful of throw rug. The crash is absolutely tremendous, rattling the whole of the upstairs. Even as the wind is knocked out of me, the cannula torn right off my face, and my arm goes bulbous and numb, I curse — there’s no way Artemis didn’t hear that. Or Paula. 

Not only did I forget to change — I forgot to set one of the brakes on the chair. It rolled and twisted under my weight, depositing me ultimately on the floor, rather than in the seat. 

I fight to sit up, not sure what’s up with my lower body. I twist to take stock of my position, exhaling when I see both legs are accounted for and stretched in a tolerably natural arrangement. 

Footfalls swiftly approach, followed by the creak of the door. 

“Oh, my God, babe —” 

I look up and frantically gesture when Artemis, with Mary braced on her hip, hastily rounds the corner of the bed after closing the door behind her. 

“Dick —” she admonishes in a dismayed voice, “I told you I’d take care of —” 

“D-d-don’t — don’t come over h-here,” I hiss, interrupting her and gesticulating with growing urgency when she doesn’t even slow in her approach. 

Artemis puts Mary down on the floor nearby, and then drops down by me, visibly alarmed. I can’t even look Artemis in the face now as she lays her hands on my shoulders, heedless of my weak efforts to fend her off. 

“Hon, just let me check if you’re hurt or anything’s broken real quick — I need to know if I need to take you to the hospital,” she tells me, gently prodding at my limbs, making a noise when she finds an open, bleeding wound on my arm. 

The hospital — oh, God, as if this day and night could get any worse — 

I push weakly at her hands. “Artemis, p-p-please don’t —” 

Too late. I sag when she pauses in her ministrations, by now discovering how sodden I am. Her eyes flick over to the equally wet sheets, and it’s clear from her expression when the ammoniac stink registers in her senses. Her posture slackens, and she softens as she turns to look at me. 

“Oh, babe,” she murmurs, reaching over and running a hand over my hair. 

“I’m s-s-sorry, Artemis,” I murmur, resolutely not meeting her gaze. “I… I f-f-forgot some things.” 

“Oh, Dick, it’s okay,” she says, and at the unexpected — and entirely undeserved — tenderness in her voice, it’s all I can do not to start crying here and now, unleashing all those tears I’ve fought all day. 

Battling the urge to sob, I tell her I’m sorry over and over again in a stuttering, breathless mantra. She repeats herself in turn, saying in a comforting tone, “It’s all right, Dick — it’s all right,” over my litany of apologies. 

At last, she takes my face in her hands, forcing me to look at her, quieting me. 

“Dick, it’s okay,” she tells me with a gentle insistence. “It’s okay.” 

I taper off, and exhale. Artemis thumbs my cheek, then lowers her hands. She reaches over to the chair to set the brakes. I take a deep breath in, checking in with my body. Seems okay — nothing’s screaming _crisis_ at me, at least, other than my decimated pride and the one spot on my arm that’s dribbling an innocuous trickle of blood. I’ll sport some bruises from this, but likely nothing worse. 

“Come on, hon,” Artemis says, “let’s get you in the chair. I’ll have to to take Mary to hang out in my mom’s room — _Mary!”_

I look up, and see that Mary’s crawled over to the potted plant by the window, and scattered the soil all over the wooden floor. Artemis rushes over to her, wresting her from the pot, which instigates a spectacular, thrashing fit. She holds Mary up, extending her a bit from her as her legs kick out in anger. 

“I’ll be right back, just a second —” Artemis says with an aggravated sigh. 

She marches out of the room with Mary’s planking, struggling, shrieking form. Paula calls from downstairs, and I turn to my back on the floor, hearing Artemis as she responds on her way down the steps. 

I stare up at the ceiling in my awful puddle of stark humiliation, and let go a sigh. 

Happy Homecoming. 

When Artemis comes back upstairs, I decide not to fight with her when she boosts me into the chair and wheels me to the bathroom. I stay quiet as she turns on the shower water. I don’t resist when she helps me peel the wet clothes away from my shivering form — although I think I could kiss her in spite of everything when she hands me some towels so I can cover up once she’s gotten me from the wheelchair to the showerseat. I lay one across my lap, and draw up short. 

Before everything happened — whatever _everything_ was — Artemis saw me naked so many times there’s no way I could hope to remember each one. I was never apologetic about my body back then — but I guess that’s easy when you’re in peak physical condition and hung like a mule. I’ve put some meat back on my bones now, sure, but I’m a long way off from what I used to be — now, I look like a pile of sticks assembled into a vaguely humanoid shape. For Artemis to see me like this, so frail and _wasted,_ so undignified and childish, not even a shadow of the man she knew and loved — 

The tears come — finally. All of them burst out of me in a deluge of sobs. 

“Oh, honey,” Artemis murmurs, sprinkled with shower water, her tank by now cleaving damp to her own spare form. She steps all the way into the stall now, heedless of the tap, and pulls me close to her. “Come here.” 

“I’m s-sorry,” I tell her, holding her by her waist, pressing my face into her shoulder. “Arty… I’m s-s-so sorry.” 

I feel the movement as she shakes her head. She holds me tighter. “Don’t be, babe.” She withdraws a bit, canting so she can look at me. “Look, _I_ should be the one apologizing. Okay? I didn’t mean for… today to be what it was. _God,_ I was so stupid. Just so stupid — I just wasn’t thinking —” 

My turn to shake my head. I lift a hand, cutting her off. “St-stop. N-n-nothing of this was your fault, Artemis. Y-y-you just wanted to d-d-d-do something n-nice for me, and _h-h-help_ me. I was j-j-j-just stubborn and a total jerk —” 

“Dickie, no, you weren’t,” she says, running a hand over my face. “You were just in a completely overwhelming situation — actually, scratch that, you were in a complete _shit_ situation, not to be crass or whatever — and you were trying to adjust. You were nothing shy of a total _Viking,_ if you ask me. And you’ve been nothing but a Viking _this entire time._ Understand?” 

Something about those words — again, so undeserved — makes me cry harder, and I reach out, pulling her to me again. She readily wraps me up in her known, soothing embrace. I close my eyes against the wet skin of her chest. 

After a time, I sit back a little, not fully letting go of her, and drag in a loud, puerile snuffle. I wipe at my nose. 

“…I r-r-really appreciate you saying that,” I say, my voice hoarse and thin. “And e-e-even if I was an actual d-d-d-dick earlier… I also really appreciated wh-wh-what you d-did.” 

She smiles a little. “Really?” 

I nod. “I acted like a t-t-t-twat, but… it m-m-m-meant a lot to me.” 

She leans in to kiss my forehead. “You weren’t a jerk, or an actual dick, _or_ a twat, babe. I just… didn’t think.” 

I shake my head. “You don’t n-n-n-n-need to be s-sorry, Arty.” 

She warms, and hugs me again. “Neither do you.” 

We hold one another for a while, even as Artemis’ pajamas cling to her form under the running water, not speaking. 

By and by, Artemis helps me clean up, dry off, and change. She wheels me out into the bedroom, then retreats into the closet to change her own clothes. She tends to my arm, cleaning and bandaging it. “You ought to get a lollipop for this one,” she jokes before she moves on to sweep up the dirt from the floor. She changes the sheets. She runs downstairs to throw everything in the washing machine. 

I sit, embarrassed as ever, and feel like a complete waste of space. I would like to try to at least transfer from the chair to the bed, just to make things easier on Artemis, but I opt not to — not wanting to inadvertently cause another catastrophe that might have worse results (hospital stay, anyone?) 

Know your limits, as the saying goes. And so I just sit, knowing my limits with a sinking sense of curb-stomping _humbling_ that they don’t stretch very far these days. Brucely chills by the wheel of my chair. 

When Artemis comes back in, she’s holding Mary, who’s cute as can be in her little two-piece jammies with pink dinosaurs on them and looking properly sleepy now. 

“All right, say good night to your dad, kiddo,” Artemis says, leaning down so I can kiss our daughter’s forehead. I melt when Mary coos a bit, smiling at me and palming at a handful of my hair before Artemis takes her out of the room to put her down. 

When Arty returns, I can’t help myself as she boosts me from the chair to the bed. 

“So… about having t-t-two babies to take c-c-care of?” I say, smiling to let her know I’m kidding. 

She gives my hair a playful cuff. “Yeah, well, at least _one_ of them is cute.” 

“Arty! Now wh-wh-what would our d-d-daughter say if she h-heard you s-s-say that?” 

“Who said I wasn’t referring to her?” Artemis crawls into bed by me, then kisses my cheek. She smiles as I settle the cannula into position. “And look who’s back, by the way.” 

I smile back at her, trying to leave all the events of the day and night at the door now. Nothing to be done for them now, except to try making everything as easy as possible on Artemis from here on. “Hopefully for real this t-t-time.” 

“Well, don’t stress on that one, babe,” she murmurs. “Because… honestly? You’re _both_ cute.” 

I sigh, sobering, unable to engage in joking now. “You say that, and y-y-y-yet…” 

I trail off. Artemis is quiet a moment, then cuddles in by me, resting her head on my chest. 

“Don’t worry about it, Dick,” she murmurs. “…I’m just glad you’re home.” 

I take a breath, and release it. 

“Yeah… m-m-m-me, too,” I whisper, and pray it’s not a lie. 

Artemis switches off the light, then kisses my temple. I hear Brucely as he finds his dog bed on the floor by the window, and flops down for the night. 

“Get some sleep, hon,” she says. “Onward and upward from here.” 

I lie in quiet beside her as she settles down, curling up next to me and laying her arm across my chest. I rest a hand on her hair, still damp, and wonder what thorn I pulled out of whose paw to deserve this woman. 

_Yeah… onward and upward,_ I think. 

Princess hops up onto the bed after a time, curling up between Artemis in me in a lightly vibrating pile of fur. I stroke her back, alternating between her and Artemis’ sweep of hair. 

I lie awake for a long time from here, thinking. 

Onward and upward. And it will be, I determine — it _has_ to be. I’m home after months of being away — and even if this first day and night didn’t go how I (or anyone else) hoped, I _can’t_ let its events sabotage and characterize my upcoming homelife. It’s not fair to my daughter, or to the woman beside me, or the family and friends that turned up to welcome me home and offer their support to me just today. Artemis, after all she’s bent over backwards for me over all this time, deserves as much — and _so_ much more. 

I heavily sigh. Artemis deserves better, God knows I know. And even if I can’t ever fully realize the better that she’s earned — I have to at _least_ do my best. That means smiling and remaining strong through everything — and accepting _help_ once in a while. 

_You slipped a little,_ I tell myself, a tiny spark lighting itself within me in spite of the fatigue, fogginess, and pain that permeates my body. _That’s all. Just try to get it together and do better from here. You_ have _to._

I take a breath, and close my eyes against the listing moonlight on the ceiling. 

Onward and upward. 

******** 

The next morning, I’m up before Artemis, who sleeps the dead sleep of the utterly exhausted sprawled out on her stomach with her hair fanned over her pillow. I carefully get myself up and moving, changing into tolerable clothes (it’s sweats and a tee, but the ensemble at least functions as active clothing), brush my teeth, put on deodorant, comb my overgrown hair, and ensure I’m appropriately fitted out for the day. I head downstairs, careful on the lift to the first floor, and let Brucely out. Then I get busy familiarizing myself with the layout of the kitchen, interacting with it from my chair. When I feel comfortable enough, I start making breakfast. 

I actually am just about done with constructing a pile of perfectly decent pancakes and throwing some fruit together when I hear the padding sound of footsteps down the stairs, along with Mary’s softly babbling voice. 

Artemis’ face, when she enters the kitchen, vindicates the time I spent getting used to the kitchen layout as related to Yolo Swaggins, and the effort of cooking from an entirely different, unaccustomed angle. There’s a flit of concern, but it’s replaced immediately with glee, an impressed sparkle gleaming in her eyes. 

“Wow…” she says appreciatively, handing Mary to me so she can fix the baby a plate from what I’ve laid out. “I can’t believe you did this.” 

“Neither c-c-c-can I,” I tell her honestly, kissing Mary’s soft hair and smiling when she cuddles into my chest. “But c-can I take a s-second and toot my own h-h-h-horn that I didn’t b-blow the place up?” 

Artemis laughs, and pauses in her task, turning to me. She leans down, and drops a kiss on my forehead. 

“Horn rightfully tooted — and thanks, stud,” she says. “Sorry I slept in so late, by the way — I feel like _I_ should be the one doing this, honestly.” 

I wave a hand. “I’ve g-g-got to get used to things. And s-slept so late? Girl, it’s l-like eight o’clock.” 

She chuckles. “Well, that’s pretty much like sleeping all day for me at this point. Speaking of the time — caregiver’s due to be here in about an hour. Dollars to donuts she’ll be pleased to see you got yourself up and made frickin’ pancakes.” 

I smile. “That was the i… idea.” I’m quiet a moment, then sigh. “I’m s-sorry about yesterday, A-arty.” 

She shakes her head, and gives me her beautiful smile, easing my guilt all in an instant. “Don’t worry about it, babe. What happened yesterday stays there, okay? Because honestly... I'm sorry, too.” She leans down, and kisses my lips this time. “Onward and upward from here, right?” 

I nod. “Onward and u-u-upward.” 

Well, no more dwelling on crap behavior, humiliating bathroom episodes, and undignified falls. We have breakfast, with Paula joining us part of the way through. Artemis nurses our daughter, chatting with me in companionate ease while Paula generously cleans up. Then, it’s onto playing with Mary until the caregiver — Sylvia — arrives. 

She is a very kind woman, maybe in her forties, with a bubbly, gentle disposition. We all hit it off with her immediately, and I get the impression that she and Artemis have already formed a legitimate, lifelong friendship even from these first few moments of meeting. 

I take a breath, all the horrors of the day before effectively diminishing into something like a bad dream — separate from the here and now, barricaded off from the present — as Sylvia, or Syl as she says we can call her, goes over what each day will look like, what her role in the house will be while she’s here, and what we can expect from her. 

I’m solaced for the time being, and somewhat invigorated, too, holding Mary on my lap while she plays with a toy and I listen to Sylvia and ask questions — all in my own house. With my family around me. 

_One goal at a time,_ I remind myself. _For right now, it’s get used to being home. From there… maybe you can open up to other things._

And even if I know what those other things are going to be, even if I’m anxious to get to them now things are calming somewhat, I firmly shelve each one, and focus on the _now._

Onward and upward — and Happy Homecoming. 


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER 6**

_Artemis_

Jade’s waiting for me at our proscribed meeting spot, suited up, but unmasked. She clucks as I approach her and hands me a kiwi-apple Red Bull — about the only energy drink I’ll ever allow to pass my lips. 

“Turd,” I tell her, but pop it open and drink immediately. 

“Yep. Don’t say thank you,” she snarks, hooking her mask over her face. 

“Why would I thank you for attempting to thrust me headlong into diabetes and hypertension?” I say, although I smile. 

I don’t have to see her face to know she’s smirking. “You ready for this?” 

I roll my neck, then my shoulders — loosening my vibrating muscles. “Eh — I just hope _they_ are. Whoever _they_ might be. Did you get the undercard lineup?” 

She nods. “Here.” 

Drawing up a document on her work tablet, she hands it to me. 

“The Killicorn,” I say, and buzz my lips. “Wow.” 

“Yep. And I shudder to think what renders this contestant the hypothetical murderous counterpart to a unicorn,” Jade concurs. 

“Let’s not dwell on visions of hentai tentacle porn,” I advise as we make a path for the cycles my sister stashed for use this evening. Apparently, Roy supplied them — and I find myself wondering if he knows about what it is we’re up to when we vanish on these little sisterly confabs for “retreats” and “spa weekends” and “seminars.” 

I quell the thought, then finish the energy drink, squash the can, and stow it in my pack. (Reduce! Reuse! Recycle!) 

“Liquid heart attack, down the chute,” I mutter, hooking on the Huntress mask and motorcycle helmet. “Now _definitely_ ready for that Hentai Killicorn.” 

“So how are you sleeping these days?” Jade asks. 

I sigh, and ignore the sense of congestion behind my eyes and wobbliness in my limbs. “Can we just not talk about it?” 

She shoves the foliage away from the motorcycles. “Well, why not?” Swiping a leg over the seat of hers, she looks over her shoulder at me, the cat mask glowing like a ghastly, sanguine ghost in the darkness. “And answer me this one, kiddo — did you ever get that recipe for lavender hemp milk I sent you?” 

I scoff, and situate myself on the bike seat. “Okay — first of all, like _I_ have time to make fucking hemp milk. Second of all, like I —” 

“You have time if you’re up all night, anyway,” she points out helpfully, “and doesn’t Dick have some issues with catching those elusive Z’s, too? Maybe you can try it for the both of you. Argue _that_ logic, sis — I dare you.” 

I pause for a moment, then deflate as I concede. “Well, that’s a good point. Thompkins _did_ mention he should adhere to a steady rhythm at night to kind of train his brain’s sleep-wake cycle… Maybe some of that —” I make exaggerated quote motions, “‘moon milk’ stuff will do him some good.” 

“And you,” Jade mentions. “At least Dickieboy’s on medication for his sleep patterns.” 

I hook a leg over the cycle seat while she starts up her bike. “Look at you, all maternal and stuff. Anyway — it only does so much for him, Jade. Like he _still_ deals with erratic sleep patterns and insomnia and difficulty waking up here and there, even on meds.” I rub at my face, then adjust the helmet. “But he said he’s been sleeping better at home, at least.” 

“And how are things on that front?” Jade asks, switching to the ear comm system now as she pulls the bike out onto the back roads to lead the way. “Any better than the horror of Tuesday afternoon?” 

“They’re… getting there,” I reply. “It’s a little up and down, but don’t forget, he’s only been home a few days. Syl, at least, is a godsend. But you know when Dick holds Peach, he stutters less?” 

Jade glances over her shoulder at me. “Does he, now?” 

“Sure does.” 

“See, little sis? Cats _do_ serve a purpose.” 

I roll my eyes as she chuckles triumphantly and pulls ahead a bit. The conversation dwindles, both of us now shifting gears as we accelerate toward our destination. As we do, I think — and prepare. 

Dick didn’t really have the homecoming that either of us envisioned, but I guess, looking back, that I _really_ should have known better. Coming home after a protracted hospital stay is generally doomed to be a case study in expectations vs. reality — something that should have occurred to me earlier on. 

Leaving the hospital when you’ve been stuck there for months on end (in Dick’s case, nearly an entire year) can be, in a lot of ways, like leaving home. It’s not what you’d call a comfortable or cozy home, but you’ve gotten used to its rhythms, how life unfolds within its confines. Then… all at once, you’re thrust out of it and back into the old homestead you’re no longer integrated in. What, and things are supposed to just magically fall into place and go back to how they were before you left? (Shake my head.) 

Why in the hell did I think a _party_ was a good idea? I knew that Dick was missing friends and loved ones badly — even if he didn’t speak it, I could _see_ the melancholy glimmering in fleeting gleams of darker blue in his eyes, the shadows that came over his face when I mentioned someone he’d not seen since he came out of his coma. So the party felt like a lightbulb at the time at the time it occurred to me — something to _keep_ his persevering smile on his face. And when the thought got its hooks in, its grip never retracted — I saw the idea through to the (bitter) end, convinced it would be good for him. 

But I was doubting my previous certainty by the time we arrived at home, given that Dick had regurgitated everything from the past year on the drive home (motion sickness was _not_ something I’d anticipated or accounted for — hello, Artemis!) Naptime on the couch with Peach and a blanky presented itself as a better advised way to ring in his homecoming than a house chock full of noisy, excited friends. My nerves were a disaster zone as I pulled into the driveway, sweating the fact that Dick looked like he was about to fall on his face and everyone was in the house waiting for him. 

He smiled, however, and seemed genuinely thrilled to see everybody, so I opted to let the party unfold as planned, although the concern niggled determinedly at the back of my mind. 

My concern grew, evolving into the wish that I’d just chucked the idea altogether (or at the _least_ blown the whistle on everyone) when, as time passed, I could _see_ how green Dick’s skin had gone, how he remained mostly silent, how he uncustomarily slouched and hunched in his chair, how he never smiled open-mouthed. He sat with his head kept turned in what I was sure was an unconscious effort at hiding his caved orbital. 

And then I was looking for any available excuse to end the party early, full of self-condemnation and regret, when I saw how utterly devastated Dick was when Mary, after taking a faceplant spill, made an immediate beeline for Jason and bypassed her father. It was no secret that his heart broke into a thousand pieces in the moment Mary went crying to her uncle instead of him — the evidence was plastered all over Dick’s face like a ravaged mask. 

I joked with him about it a little the following morning, saying, “Psh! Rude.” He chuckled and goofed in turn with a “She ought to kn-know who’s going to whack h-her good-for-nothing Prom date with a b-b-b-birdarang and shepherd her f-first date wearing Groucho Marx glasses — because I’ll tell you now it’s n-n-not going to be her wayward Uncle J-jay.” 

His ability to express humor over the horror of Tuesday afternoon, as Jade just put it, was somewhat mollifying, but I can’t help inwardly flaying myself for the whole thing even now. He had enough to acclimate to — why the hell couldn’t I have just _waited?_ And I still can’t help but fret over the concept that if I’d just kept everything easy and gentle, if I’d thought _more,_ and more rationally, about the situation — maybe the night would have gone better, too. 

When the subject arose in a sudden stream of apologies the other night as he allowed me to help him get ready for bed (with a sweet and admirably cooperative acceptance this time, bless that boy), I assured him it was okay, that it was hardly a big deal, that I’d pissed the bed before, too. He had looked askance at me, and I decided to share the tale with him, as uncomplicated and Standard Issue Artemis it might have been. 

I took a severe hit to the small of my back, training with my dad just before my mom got out of prison. It was an unlucky second for me — I slipped in the rain we trained in, went _shoomp_ to my side in the grass, and then _wham._ Dad’s steel-booted foot to the back and an admonition to right or protect myself immediately if I ever lost my footing. 

“Whoever you’re fighting ain’t gonna be your dad, baby girl,” he growled. “And if you fell on your clumsy moron ass like this with them — it’d be your _neck,_ not your back.” 

I pulled myself up, sopping wet and soaked in mud, fighting tears as violent washes of tingling numbness shot through my legs. Instead of tapping out, though, which is what I’m sure my father expected me to do by the Lawrence Crock signature sneer/smirk on his face, I hurled myself full-throttle into the remainder of that session. I was determined to prove that I wasn’t clumsy, that I wasn’t a moron — and I paid for my aggressive posturing, and the little love tap to the kidneys, later. I was in so much pain as I lay half-sleeping in my profound discomfort that I peed the sheets. It was a problem for a few days — this overage incontinence, not to mention the blood in my urine. I never spoke a word of it to a single soul. 

I darkened when I realized that my father had put us both in such discomfited spots. And my retelling didn’t have the desired effect — instead of comforting Dick, it clearly made him feel worse. I pummeled myself internally for what seemed the nth time, and asked him what was the matter in the silence that followed his regretful expression. 

“I’d knock that b-bastard’s teeth out all over again if I c-c-could,” he said grimly. 

I drew up a little, gazing down at Dick, feeling a sudden and overpowering influx of profound warmth for my partner that quieted my self-reproach. There he was, stripped and covered with a towel in his wheelchair, missing half his teeth under the scars on his lips, stuttering, blind in one eye, fighting something of a light cough that had bothered him since coming home — and he was more focused on one of my old hat exchanges with my father, one long gone, largely left behind, hardly dwelt upon now. 

The feeling hit me like a ton of bricks. For a moment, I had to wrangle with an abrupt urge to cry. Wordlessly, I leaned down, and hugged him — _tight_ — about his shoulders. 

I didn’t care how Tuesday went. I didn’t care that I had to clean his piss-soaked sheets, get him from the chair to the toilet, massage his unmoving legs to prevent blood clots and spasms, assist in his home physical therapy exercises, organize his rainbow of pills, hold him when he cried. 

“I love you,” I murmured, glad when he laid his hands on my forearms and pressed his cheek to mine, hugging me in turn. 

I held him like that for a long time, even after he said he loved me, too. 

“Anyway… no need for violence,” I assured him, by and by. I left a kiss on his cheek and gave him a squeeze, then released him. “You already taught him his lesson, babe.” 

“…Did I, though?” Dick said, looking hard at me, a dark gleam in those long-lashed blue eyes, the ones I’ll always be hopelessly head-over-heels for. “I mean… wh-what good has it done?” He sighed. “He’s on the outside, Arty — I kn-know. I looked into it a b-b-bit this morning.” 

I was quiet a moment, and took a breath. 

So many Pandora’s Boxes those short sentences opened. So many demons those boxes would unleash. 

What happened to him. Who orchestrated it. Who carried it out. What followed. The state of things — Luthor sitting pretty as a presidential candidate and owning the polls while throwing resources at a nefarious, extraterrestrial backer we still know precious little about, Dad roaming the countryside a free man. The Joker, dead — _murdered —_ by his brother, Dick himself something like the catalyst. My own near-miss with the predator that stalked our lives even then, the monster in the closet that left me jumping at every shadow, unable to sleep or eat, with nerves eternally strung into inextricable knots. What might have happened to Mary, to my mother, to our pets if Superman hadn’t flown in when he did all those months ago. 

I gritted my teeth, and shoved all of the things I, and others, willfully hid back into their requisite Pandora’s Boxes. Dick _had_ to have solid (and correct) suspicions regarding what happened to him and who-dunnit in some capacity, I knew, and he’d learn of it eventually — he’d go snooping to confirm his theories if no one told him outright. But I didn’t want that eventually to be so _soon,_ a scant few days into his homecoming, while he found himself still in the throes of so much change and upheaval, fighting to acclimate to his life at present and _recover._

“Dick, if nothing else, you humiliated the _hell_ out of him and his precious rep is still suffering for it,” I told him. “And as for his being out of the clink, he’s kept a low-profile — nothing to report so far.” 

Dick was quiet, clearly thinking, equally clearly deciding not to voice his thoughts. I shifted gears and changed the subject. And bless that boy again — he cooperated with both that, and my assistance, and the night passed comfortably and uneventfully, even if my dozing was restless at best and his the same. 

I stifle a sigh. Here I am now, worrying about Dick, missing Mary, wondering about them both — torn, as always. It seems especially ill-timed now that I leave the house, and for something astronomically stupid like “one of Jade’s sorta friend’s weddings. Oh, I’m going as her plus-one because Roy can’t stand this bitch and she can’t stand him, either.” 

_Artemis, for the umpteenth time, you are doing the_ right _thing,_ I insist to myself, my inner voice going firm and no-nonsense, the “Mom Tone” I occasionally take with Mary nowadays since she developed a mind of her own and learned to misbehave. _Your father’s already tried something with Mary and with Dick. Serious things, too — don’t forget that bastard damn near killed you and your family last time you saw him. And you_ know _he’ll try something again — and he’ll only get bolder and more dangerous next time. It’s up to you not to let it get to that point —_ you. _And no one else. This is your task. Your burden. Your cross. Carry it to the end._

I clench my teeth, and my heart speeds up even as the cycle does. 

I just pray Sportsmaster will be where I go. 

_Let this end tonight,_ I pray, pouring every ounce of my being into this one prayer. _Please, please,_ please _just let this end._

Roulette’s Ring is held in an abandoned series of old subway tunnels that lead out of Blüdhaven, all of them rat-infested, moldering gray-green, drippy, crumbling. The cage is on the concrete slab of a shambling, former platform, its floor lit up violet and red beneath the pulsing lights and thrumming dangerously under the pounding music. Hard times for Roulette, it seems. 

Jade and I take our positions, and wait for Roulette to announce our turn in the pit. The ground shakes underfoot and bits of dust dislodge from the perilous ceiling overhead. Happy Memorial Day, everyone — we are all going to die! 

I’m not in a position to see what’s going on, given the place is packed with spectators and contestants, human and meta alike. No sign of this "Killicorn." There are some familiar faces milling about in the wild crowd — Killer Croc, Katana, Bane — but my father is nowhere to be found. 

_Yet,_ I reassure myself. _Every source said he’d be here._

I breathe in, anchoring, readying. Each breath drawn, I inhale power and strength. Each outbreath, I exhale weakness and fear. Every nerve plucks itself up, one at a time, all the millions of them lighting and zinging with a potential, buzzing energy. I clench my fists and teeth. I roll my neck in a slow circle to alleviate muscle tension and clear my headspace. 

All these months of endless training, often at strange, sleepless hours in the Outhouse. Every second I get free — _I’m training._ Swords and bow. Mounted combat. Hand-to-hand. Speed. Strength. Flexibility. Reflexes. Mindfulness. Awareness. Perception. 

Every second I don’t have free, I’m doing _something_ in preparation for this long anticipated rumble. Footwork while I make dinner, passive abdominal exercises while sitting at my desk at work, meditative breathing while lying awake at night, stretches while I chat with Syl (who, thus far, is indeed a godsend — a delightful mush of a woman who reminds me of cream puffs, sturdy trees and sunshine), Dick, or my mother. 

Roulette’s voice over something like a loudspeaker bolts a shot of adrenaline through me — _Huntress and Cheshire, Sisters in Arms._

In with the breath. Here goes nothing. 

We move through the crowd, scoffed at, cheered for, goaded, ridiculed. All things Jade and I ignore, taking our positions now in the ring. I draw the sword — my mother’s sword — from the scabbard on my back, and plant my feet. Jade stands a ways off from me, her sais braced and ready. Roulette continues to speak over the system, her booming voice somehow still sultry in the intense volume, announcing our first opponent, the victor of the last fight within this same ring. In this case, it’s the Bride and Groom — oh, joy and rapture. 

They’re fair-to-midland enough to approach comfortably in a duo setting like this, and I ready myself, sizing them up where they stand across from us. When the Bride — Violet — makes the first move, Jade and I leap into the fray. 

It’s a fight that I feel a little distracted from and irritated over — this isn’t who I want to find or fight, here, and every movement our opponents force me to execute pulls energy and strength from the reserves that should be overflowing when the time comes for my anticipated duel with my father. And he _has_ to be here — I _refuse_ to believe that he isn’t. 

_Ugh, just give it up, you lovestruck morons,_ I think, colossally annoyed as both parties dart in and out between Jade and me, scoring hits that will require some TLC later, daring others that might just hack off a solid week from higher impact exercise and just getting one’s moldering carcass into an upright position in general. These haven’t landed in any disabling capacity so far — but if I keep focused so hard on my father and only go half-in on the fight at hand, they will. These adversaries, it turns out, are no joke — and I _can’t_ let them get the upper hand. 

I pull it together with a mighty effort, ignore the desire to (for the love of God!) save some for Dad, and tune myself into my surroundings — fighting with all the power in my body now, paying our opponents their due respect and attention. The fight goes hard and sweaty — working up a good sheen in the claustrophobic heat of the crowd and exertion. In the end, it’s a partnered move turned out with practiced — and fortunate — first-try perfection that finally places our adversaries in a position to concede. 

My blood goes hot and sizzling at the announcement of our waiting next contender. 

_Sportsmaster._

Jade looks over at me, and my heart in my ears, I briefly meet her masked gaze. My blood sprints ballistically through my veins, every muscle excited and trembling. 

Is this really happening — 

There he is — _it is happening._

It’s the first time I’ve seen him since last year, when I threw that book at his head and Superman sent him rabbiting into the woods. As he steps into the ring, his face hidden by his mask, I see he’s only gotten meatier. His shoulders have gone enormously broad, his forearms like slabs of ham, his hands giant hocks. One might normally shy away at the sight of his brutish constitution, but I grimly half-smile — he will, doubtless, only be slower now. And I’m not only fleet-footed and quick nowadays — but I can take a hit these days. 

“Look what the cat drug in — you just don’t know when to quit, do ya, Baby Girl,” he growls in that spurious voice of his, scarcely audible over the music, unlikely to be heard by spectators. “Gotta say, though, I expected you to show up a little sooner — and sure as hell not in your old lady’s wedding gown.” 

“Don’t even start,” Jade advises, speaking slowly in her sultry, gibbing way, holding her position. 

I don’t bother talking. I take off immediately at him, launching full-throttle like a rocket across the pit. Jade falls into step beside me. Both of us avoid the swipes of his weapon, that giant flail that’s lain open countless skulls like grapes under a hammer over the years of his twisted career. 

And although he’s taunting both of us, and Jade dishes right back, I still don’t speak. 

I _do._

I keep my teeth clenched shut, and with everything passing simultaneously at light speed and the listless crawl of cold molasses, I evoke the images of everything this bastard in front of me has done, conjure them like spirits, assimilate them, comprehend them — and _channel_ them. For a bare moment, the world around me swirls in vivid loops of color like a lurid, waking dream — and there’s a strange sense of disconnection that follows, an odd sort of disengagement from my surroundings as I discover with a childish wonder that this is _reality._ That this is, indeed, finally, _finally_ happening. 

My moment has come. This will be over in a matter of minutes. I just need to stay grounded, focused — 

“The idiot boyfriend get my care package?” Dad asks, leering, engaging in this deadly dance with practiced coordination. “Or do I need to deliver it in person? Got a few more things for him — not to mention some unfinished business needs tied up.” 

The heat in my chest rises into a flare, sending a shake through my limbs. One swipe of this sword — 

I move to swing the blade in a sidelong arc. If it doesn’t take his sneering head off, it’ll slice his throat wide open — and wipe that fucking sneer/smirk right off his face. 

I don’t soul-search in this moment. I only think of _ending_ this monster here and now. Words flit through my skull, all booming loudly in my own voice, and I can’t tell under the overpowering blaze of my beating adrenaline if I speak them aloud or not. 

_You won’t come near him — you won’t come near my daughter — you won’t come near my mother — my pets — teammates —_ anyone _I care about —_

To my rising fury, Sportsmaster bows backward — _that’s_ new — and avoids the hit. He bounces back with a speed he’s not exhibited in years and thrusts the ball of the flail at my face. I twist, moving fast to evade the weapon. I’m mostly successful, but I take an unfortunate grazing blow to the cheekbone that explodes a flurry of stars in my right eye. _That’ll_ leave a mark later — and will be loads of fun explaining to Dick. 

Jade imposes herself between Dad and me, creating some distance between us even as he derides me for my slip. She jerks her head over her shoulder. 

“Keep it together,” she hisses. “Don’t let him goad you like that.” 

I inhale, and rebalance myself, hearing Sportsmaster as he belittles Jade. Unlike me, she doesn’t rise to the occasion. 

_Damn it — a few minutes in and you’re already screwing up,_ I remonstrate at myself. _Keep it together, just like Jade said —_

Reentering the fray, Dad’s saying something now about me wiping the “idiot boyfriend’s” ass for him, which baby cries more, and God knows what else — they’re things I now allow to pass in one ear and out the other, taking a page out of my sister’s book. Whatever he says, however he tries to heckle me — I won’t _let_ him. Not this time. And however he digs at me, however he might injure me, however my goal is met, this is going to _end —_ here and now. 

Thoughts dart in and out of my mind like they’re playing hide and seek. How I’ll feel when I’m washing my father’s blood from my hands and sword, how I’ll ever be able to look at Dick while knowing I harbor such an enormous secret. Will I ever tell my daughter that she never knew her grandfather because her own mother ended his life. 

But I don’t dwell on them. These things are for later — _much_ later. Right now is for ridding the earth of this desiccated, soulless, heartless monster. 

_No existential angst, Artemis,_ I tell myself, ducking a fisted blow from my father, tumbling alongside him, and then rising to deliver a mule kick to his kidneys (that’s for making me piss the bed all those years ago, Dad.) The fleeting thoughts disperse into mist now, and I hurl all of myself into the battle at hand, uncaring if Jade has to _carry_ me home after all is said and done. I’ll fight myself _bloody_ to see this through to its gruesome end. 

There’s a sudden commotion that catches the eye of all three of us, a sort of bustling panic that spreads through the crowd like a domino rally. The music abruptly stops — something serious is afoot. Dad smirks, and lowers his flail. 

“Now what the hell’s goin’ on…” he says, looking into the at once frantic throngs. 

Jade and I look askance at one another for the briefest moment, wondering at what’s caused everyone in this underground to spontaneously go nuts — and then I hear it. One distinct voice, male, unrecognized in this moment, but loudly booming over the din of the crowd. 

“ _Break this shit up now — Batman’s here — so are Robin and the Red Hood —”_

My stomach about falls out of me, and before I can even look over at Jade, she’s already darting into the shifting teems. 

“I’m seen here, and this whole thing’s over,” she says through the comm system. “Friend’s wedding, whatever. Reconvene at your place tomorrow morning.” 

I vacillate, torn as I see Dad in front of me, unperturbed by the roiling crowd, the smirk still on his face. 

“That’s my cue, Baby Girl,” he says, giving me a salute. “Until next time.” 

And just like that, with a speed that belies his enormous size and age, he melts into the crowd. 

_Goddammit —_

And now, just to put a little icing on the cake, here comes my unofficial father-in-law. I hear the shout of gunshots, the bark of return fire and hiss of flash grenades. Batman stands before me, his shoulders wide, his posture not aggressive, but certainly prepared. 

“Huntress,” he states, and while his tone isn’t exactly confrontational, it’s hardly charitable, either. “At last in the flesh.” 

I stand stock still for a bare second. If he doesn’t know it’s me behind this mask, I’m a bearded dwarf named Gimli. 

And I’m utterly, utterly fucked. All my fears, coming to fruition here and now — my father escaping, my business here unfinished, the very people I’ve tried to hide this side of my current life from turning up like so many bad pennies. 

I press the button on my mask for vocal distortion, although I don’t plan on letting it come to words (or blows, for that matter.) Then I thrust down a smoke grenade, and spring into as quick an escape as I can manage. 

In a mad, pumping rush, I find a ventilation shaft, thrust its rusting grate away, and then lose my hold on its edge when Batman hurls a Batarang at my hand. It misses, clearly deliberately. I drop down, and keep my knees bent and legs fluid as I face him while he approaches me. His gait is swift, authoritative — but again, not hostile. 

“Stop,” he growls. “I’m not here to fight or pursue you, Huntress. I’m only here to talk.” 

“What if I’m not up for gabbing?” I ask, grateful to hear the vocal distortion doing its good work. 

“That’s not a concern of mine,” he returns. “I only want answers. What is the nature of the ongoing mission you’ve been engaged in with Cheshire?” 

“Well, Dark Knight in the flesh,” I say, and hedge a step backward, “that’s not a concern of yours, either — and I don’t appreciate how entitled to answers you seem to be.” 

“Anything related to Sportsmaster is my concern — because he has been a part of my own mission over the last ten months,” he says, and hedges a step closer. “And this has nothing to do with entitlement. You’ve left a trail of severely injured in your wake since you set out on this job with Cheshire — _making_ this my concern even if I weren’t seeking Crock myself.” He takes another step. “Tell me, Huntress. How did you come to acquire Lawrence Crock’s former partner’s alias — and sword?” 

_Fuck._

I take a breath. “Cheshire gave them to me.” 

He grunts a bit. “Jade Nguyen gave you her mother’s sword and allowed you to don Paula Crock’s former alias?” 

“Yes,” I say, and for show, I draw and brace the sword. “She hired me on to find Sportsmaster — and gave me the alias I was to go by and the gear I was to use.” 

“I see. And just what are Cheshire’s — and your — plans upon locating Crock? And where did _she_ acquire that gear?” 

“I didn’t ask questions.” 

He just eyes me, his expression unreadable behind that cold, black mask. “Perhaps you should have.” 

And then his hands go up — and he’s rushed me. 

I parry, swift and hard, knowing I’m _beyond_ outmatched now — even Dick at his peak would have been hesitant to go toe-to-toe with his mentor like this. What I need to do, and damn fast, is get the hell out of dodge. 

I can’t help but notice, though, that Bruce seems to be pulling his punches, tapping experimentally here and there, as though trying to gauge something — and I’m sure he is. All fighters develop a unique style over time — a signature every bit as telling as a fingerprint to a trained eye. If I let this go on, Bruce will just confirm what he already suspects — that his acting daughter-in-law is the woman behind the mask he sees, the one he’s doubtless tracked since my mission first began and Huntress the alias I chose. 

At the first opening — which isn’t even really an opening, given it’s Batman I’m engaged with — I duck into a tumble, and dart away down a passage swathed in darkness. I look over my shoulder when I realize with a sense like an abrupt smack that Batman isn’t following me — he let me go. 

My gut sinks as my gait gutters, and I hunch over my knees. 

_Oh, no…_

I know, and damn well, why he didn’t follow me. 

My whole body roils into a shake, and I make my numb, declining way through the dark shafts by way of nightvision, coming out into the kiss of balmy spring air on an abandoned depot. I sprint for the location of my stashed motorcycle, and try to integrate the idea that in a matter of moments, the one thing I’ve geared toward and fought to build up just fell spectacularly to pieces. 

Atop the motorcycle, my heart flies in my chest, fueled by the unending rushes of adrenaline and urgency. For now, I need to touch base with Jade, get the hell home, and bury the tracest evidence of my having been here. I’ll need a _good_ cover — something that will satisfy Bruce’s surely cemented suspicions, even if it breaks my brain to come up with it. 

I about skid off the tracks when none other than the Red freaking Hood comes blasting in a rubble-laden arch through the wall of the nearby train station, landing on his back, guns braced in his hands. He bows his spine, prone, and fires into the hole he’s left behind. Bursting through the opening comes what _has_ to be the fucking Killicorn. I decelerate, staring in abject shock and disgusted horror. 

The thing is at least ten feet tall — it had to barely make a decent fit in the subway station. It’s impossibly huge, with roided out, veiny, knotted muscles and a grotesquely deformed pseudo-horse face. A twisting horn with blobs of elephantiasis rises from its slab forehead, spiraling into a terrifyingly sharp, bloodied point. 

“Yeah, bring it, Lady Amalthea!” Jason shouts, unbothered by the fact that he’s just been chucked through a wall. Chuffed or not, when the thing roars, I draw my bow — time to come to my sorta-brother’s aid, to hell with what just went down minutes ago. 

I let an incendiary arrow fly into the Killicorn’s face, satisfied when the concussion knocks it off balance. I lower the bow and pull up next to Jason. I extend a hand. 

“Get on,” I say, jerking a thumb behind me. 

He doesn’t argue, leaping onto the back of the motorcycle with hasty efficiency. I pull away from the tracks, hearing the Killicorn as it gives rapid, thundering chase, accelerating with everything I’ve got until the godawful sound fades behind us. 

“What the hell was that thing — you happen to know?” Jason shouts over the keen of the wind as we put distance between us and the Killicorn. 

“I think they call it a Killicorn,” I inform him helpfully, my voice still distorted. 

“Huh. Fits,” he says. “Thanks for the assist, Mystery Lady.” 

I just nod as I push the cycle faster. 

I only stop when we reach the top of a high-reaching hill miles away from the abandoned subway, surrounded by forest and darkness, the lights of Blüdhaven a distant glow peeping through the trees. I get off the bike as Jason does the same. I rest a hand on the cycle, catching my hectic, fevered breath for a series of seconds, then turn to face Dick’s brother. There’s quiet as I stand with my arms crossed, gazing at him. 

At last, he reaches up, and removes the helmet. He gestures, his jaw set, his brows furrowed with resolve. 

“Well. Your turn, Mystery Lady… or Huntress,” he tells me. 

I grit my teeth, resigned. 

It was stupid to think no one would catch up with me hithertofore. 

I lower my own mask, and behold Jason — as something like family now, neither of us speaking for a long, long time. 

“Well,” he says finally, breaking the cricket-punctuated silence, “I’d say I’m shocked, but this makes a hell of a lot more sense than some random hopping on board with Chesh to go hunt down her asshole dad.” 

I just cross my arms tighter. My heart is pulsing visibly. “Hmm. How many of you have figured it out?” 

“I wouldn’t say any of us have figured it out, per se,” Jason tells me, and some of the tension leaves my strung muscles. “It’s more we’ve been hearing gossip about some mystery lady working with Cheshire, leaving a respectable trail of bloody deviants in her wake as she asks probing questions about Sportsmaster — this night was just confirmation that this someone does, in fact, exist. That she’s not a poltergeist or a willow-the-wisp or a rumor or what the hell ever.” 

I don’t respond, dismay rippling through my body. 

“Hearing the name Huntress come up back there…” Jason continues, and shakes his head, “seeing that gear, that sword in specific…” His shoulders tighten. “If you’re not had already, I’d say lie low for a while.” 

I still don’t respond, although I mulishly set my jaw. 

“C’mon, though, you _did_ think Bruce might show up at some point, didn’t you?” he asks, gesturing. “I mean, you paused to consider that, right?” 

I nod angrily, and loudly exhale. “It was a calculated risk, Jay. This might have been my best crack at my father for a while — I _had_ to take it.” 

“Yeah, but you pretty much just tipped off the last person you ever want knowing who you are to your identity,” Jason protests. 

“Way to state the obvious,” I sigh, all at once overwhelmingly exhausted. 

There’s a pause. 

“Arty, can I ask you something?” he says. “Why didn’t you involve me in all this? You know I could’ve helped you — not to mention, I _said_ I’d kill that fucker for ya in a heartbeat if you ever asked.” 

I lower my hands, and then gesticulate furiously. 

“Jason, this is _my_ mission,” I snap, at once livid. “No one else’s. I know you all have a vested interest in this goddamn mess, I fully acknowledge that — but this is _my_ father. _My_ enemy. Ending him is _my_ cross to bear — _mine._ And this all goes back years beyond what happened to Dick — _years._ No one — and I mean _no one_ — else is going to step on this turf. And if I have to take anyone else who tries stepping on it off the field entirely… _don’t_ think I won’t.” 

Jason is quiet, frowning, his eyes intense as he waits for me to go on. 

“…I wanted my father to know who I was.” Again, I cross my arms. “This whole thing began with Huntress. It should end with her, as well.” 

“Well, you know I’m not disagreeing, here,” Jason says. “But you’ve got Batman — and Robin — on your tail now. What are you gonna do from here?” 

I sigh, and shake my head. “I guess… I’m just going to lie low for a while, like you said. It’s really all I _can_ do at this point.” I push my sweaty hair away from my forehead. “And next opportunity I get… I _won’t_ make a big semi-public show of going after my father. I’ll just get it done — fast. Before anyone else can come crash the party.” 

Jason beholds me in silence for a moment. 

“Well,” he says, his voice low, softly issued, “you remember what I said about you not finding any condemnation or judgment in me over this. You remember that, right?” 

I nod, and again, swipe at my hair. 

“Good. So… you need my help at any time in seeing this job done,” he tells me, “I’ll do whatever I can. And I mean that. Whatever I can — including keep Bruce off your tail.” 

I exhale, and shake my head. “How exactly are you going to accomplish that one, Jay?” 

Jason is quiet, then he gives me his crooked grin. “The way I always do — be a gigantic pain in his ass.” 

There’s a pause, and then I relax as I cave under a direly needed chuckle. “Which… is generally pretty effective, I’ve noticed.” 

Jason chuckles, too. “You know it. In seriousness, though… I got your back, girl.” He darkens. “You know I want that piece of shit dead every bit as much as you do. So… I’ll just round out this fellowship by saying you have my fists — and my guns.” 

I stare at him, holding his gaze for a long time, and then, at last, I smile. 

“Then let’s kick some Sportsmaster ass,” I say. “What should we call ourselves, the Fellowship of the… Wing?” 

He full-on laughs this time. 

“You got it,” he says, “and that name is primo. Your sister gonna be okay with me hopping on board?” 

“Pfffttt. I’ll _make_ her okay with it if need be,” I say. “Look, though, Jay… much as I’d love to confab about the first meeting of the Fellowship of the Wing, I have a pretty huge mess I _have_ to try cleaning up, and like… stat.” I scrub at my face, and take a breath. “Better get moving.” 

He nods. “Understood, Mystery Lady. I’ll have Robin come grab me here. You okay for now?” 

I give him a wan smile. “Well… kinda have to be, Red Hood.” 

He gives me something of a sympathetic expression. “Fair enough. You just get home safe and fast, okay?” 

I nod and hop on the bike, cutting off to Gotham in a damn hurry. I quickly touch base with Jade — she’s on her way home, tolerably secure for now. 

In spite of the encouraging exchange with Jason, my heart sinks the entire way to the city, all but dragging along behind me, somewhere in the vicinity of my shoes when I stop to change into my ruse clothing. 

_Now_ what am I going to do? 

******* 

“There,” Dick says, putting the final touch on bandaging my cheek. “H-how about them apples? F-finally d-d-doing some caring around here for a change.” 

I half-heartedly smile at him. “Thanks, babe. But you know I could’ve handled this one.” 

“I know you c-could,” he says, closing up the first-aid kit. “But I wanted to. Th-thanks for indulging me.” 

I sigh, and lean my aching head on my hand. “Well, I’ll just say this. I’m never wearing heels again.” 

He sets the kit on the counter, and reaches over to me, grasping my free hand. Peach shifts positions on his lap. “Think of it this way — at least you g-g-got to bail out of the wedding early. Did Jade a favor.” 

I huff something of a laugh, hating myself as I deceive him even now. “Small favors.” 

“Well, if it helps, you still look b-beautiful,” he tells me. 

I go all warm and fuzzy, and squeeze his hand. “How was Mare?” 

He smiles, heedless of his missing teeth. “She was g-great. She ate like you w-wouldn’t believe — would’ve made Wally proud. Got a little cranky around bedtime, b-b-b-but nothing too serious. I read her a book and cuddled with her a while and she settled down pretty f-f-fast. She fell as-sleep about an hour ago.” 

My chest aches, responding as much to my own heartache as to the efforts from earlier and the blows I took from the Bride and Groom and my father. When I speak, my voice sounds reedy and thin, tired even to my own ears. But I smile. “You’re talking so much better now.” 

His own smile widens — the expression so genuine it hits me right in the soul — as he rubs Peach’s ears. “Think it’s a combination of this gal right here, and you and Mary and your m-mom. You know, just being h-home. Starting to feel more at ease.” 

I nod, my throat thickening for some reason. “Good, hon.” 

There's an interim of quiet. 

But it’s hearing those words — _Starting to feel more at ease —_ that inexplicably unspools a densely wound rope of unimaginable tension in my chest, just taking an end of the string and pulling it, unraveling it all at once. And just like that… 

Oh, Christ, I’m crying. 

“Arty?” Dick says, angling toward me with mounting concern even as I cover my face with both hands, struggling to hide this unwanted lapse from him. “Arty, what’s the matter?” 

I shake my head, my chest strangulating. I try to take a breath and settle down, and only choke on the inhalation in an undignified hiccup. 

And the tears keep coming even as I try to fight them — but I can't seem to make them stop. It's as though something's flipped on the crying switch, and it's stuck on and there's nothing I can do to get it back to off. When was the last time I allowed myself to break down like this, alone or with company, and least of all in front of my partner? I wrangle with the pressing, surging sobs, thinking that this is hardly the first glitch in a well-laid plan I've ever experienced — _why_ am I faltering like this now? 

I get to my feet, and shake my head. “I’m sorry. I just… I’m embarrassed because I fell, I just need to take a shower or something —” 

Dick reaches over, and takes hold of my hand, stalling my would-be exit from the bathroom. 

“Babe,” he murmurs, drawing me to him, “what’s wrong? I’ve never seen you cry like this over falling in high heels.” 

And at that familiar tone — the intonation of his voice that’s _always_ invited me to open up to him if I want, and not one stutter hindering his speech — I cry even harder, hitching in puerile gasps and sniffles. 

I can’t tell Dick what’s wrong. I can’t let him in on all of the poorly timed straws that have broken the Artemis’ back in this sneak attack moment of weakness. And whatever the straws might be — that my ruse is up and I'm _really_ in the shit with none other than freaking _Batman,_ that my dangerous monster of a father is still free, that I _did,_ in fact, fall on my face in front of a crowd of people, that I bonked a project at work or the runner is shot in my pantyhose — I shouldn’t _allow_ him to comfort me, either. Not with everything he has in front of him, everything he’s wrangling with, every last one of the many, many obstacles on his plate. God, I myself don’t have time for meltdowns — I have yet to attempt _fixing_ the disasters this one night bred into existence, and I need to get on that _yesterday._

But when Dick looks up at me, and I see in him that loving, nurturing presence that I’ve always known him to be, my body just goes on autopilot, pooling down into a liquescent weight, sinking heavily into the space by his thigh on his chair. Peach hops away, making room for me as I sag into Dick’s chest with the profound feeling that I’ve just escaped some horrific ordeal and come to the safety of _home._ Blinded and choked by tears, I childishly press my face into his neck. I feel his arms as they lift and go around me. I feel his embrace, the warmth of his body, the comfort and security of his nearness. I take in the well-known scent of his neck. I soothe under the sensation of his hand as it strokes my hair. I let all of _him_ surround me, and quiet the turmoil within. Just as he has so, so, _so_ often over all the years we’ve known one another. 

He murmurs to me, the stutter barely even present, his voice soft and gentle. His voice, speaking to me like this, was a sound I feared for so long that I’d never hear again. I doubly treasure it now. I listen, and integrate the sound of his voice as he whispers his sweet, comforting little not-nothings to me over my torrential sobs. I cry until my eyes burn, the wells go dry, and all my reserves deplete themselves. But even when all that tapers as I dwindle down into little sniffs and hiccups, I don’t withdraw from Dick. 

I just rest against his chest, allowing myself this one moment, ignoring the pressing matter of _what next._ The _what next_ will come, I know — nothing will hurry it up or slow it down, and I can no longer bring myself to focus on the tasks ahead and all the growing potential crises that loom when _this_ feels so good. 

Dick draws back a little, laying a hand on my face, thumbing my wet cheek. He kisses my forehead, and draws me near him again. Drained beyond comprehension, I close my eyes, and listen to his heart — its steady, comforting downbeat. _Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

Another sound I feared would be lost to my ears forever. I huddle as close to its cadence as I can, allowing its rhythm to ease my distress. 

With something like temporary relief, I let go of _what next._

And for right now, I focus on _this._

Only this. 

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I doze off. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY I AM OFF MY HIATUS :D :D
> 
> I love how psychically connected YJ3 and I were with regard to the use of hololenses LOLOLOLOLOLOL
> 
> Much love, y'all! <3 ^_^ Enjoy!

**CHAPTER 7**

_Dick_

I’m chatting with Syl about different medications, holding Mary on my lap next to Peach, when the doorbell rings. My daughter’s head is propped on my shoulder as she customarily fights sleep, and she lifts up, looking around with a fuss. I shush her a bit as the cat leaps off my lap and Brucely gets to his feet and chuffs a light bark. I glance over at Paula where she works in the kitchen, blending different teas, her favored hobby alongside temari. She frowns askance at me. Last I checked, neither of us is expecting anyone. 

Sylvia cuts off her rundowns regarding some of the newer meds I’ll be on now I’ve gotten my dental implants, and rises from her seat at the bar that separates the kitchen from the living area. With a smile and pat left on my shoulder, she goes to answer the door. I take a second to fiddle with the new teeth with the tip of my tongue, still astonished at how much more of a feeling of _normalcy_ it gives me to feel them there. They’ve decreased the lisp I’d spoken with since losing my old ones, something I’m eternally grateful for — lisping and stuttering was worlds past embarrassing. No solid foods just yet — they need to heal — but soon enough, I’ll be eating like I used to, as well. _God,_ I can’t wait. 

I’m surprised to hear Bruce’s voice as it filters into the room from the foyer. He hadn’t mentioned he was coming today. 

“Huh,” I tell Mary as I hold her to me with one hand, and use the other to wheel into the foyer. “How about that, k-kiddo, Grandpa’s here.” 

“Yes, he is,” Bruce says, smiling when Mary squeals with delight to see him. He takes her as she extends her arms to him, placing her comfortably on his hip. He’s attired casually, jeans and a tee, unusual for a Monday. 

“Heya, Pop-pop,” I say lightly. “Didn’t expect to s-see you today.” 

Always one to cut to the chase, Bruce nods and says, “I need to talk to you. In private.” 

I frown. “Ohhh-kay… am I in t-t-trouble?” 

Bruce gives me an impassive glance, although a dark look enters his eyes. “ _You_ aren’t.” 

I don’t like the sound of that. I look over at Syl, and she gives me a smile and nod. 

“We’ll pick back up on this in a bit,” she tells me. “No rush on it.” 

With that, she retreats into the kitchen with Paula as Bruce hands Mary to her grandmother. They exchange a couple of words, and then Bruce approaches me. 

“Want to talk in the sunroom?” he asks. 

I nod. “Okay.” 

The sunroom, a newish addition that Artemis and I had discussed and she’d seen to completion while I was in the hinterland of a coma and still in the hospital, adjoins the back deck, a square block of polished driftwood with floor-to-ceiling screened windows. It’s host to a plethora of different plants — Japanese peace lilies, palms, money trees, hibiscus, and potted herbs that Artemis uses frequently in her cooking. I’ve been especially fond of this room since arriving home, with its greenery and bohemian rugs and furniture. Arty bought a wood-burning stove for use in the colder months. The plants will come inside when the time comes. I’m glad Bruce chose this room to hold this doubtless uncomfortable confab in. Princess follows us out, hopping into her accustomed position on my lap. 

“So what’s up, d-doc?” I ask, as Bruce has a seat on one of the cushioned chairs by the window. I situate myself across from him, extending a hand to Brucely as he wanders in behind us. I rub his ears, missing Wally with a pang as his dog settles by the wheel of my chair. “I’m assuming Christmas is c-canceled this year, going by your super-grim expression.” 

Bruce huffs a bit, and leans toward me. “Well, it might very well be. Listen, Dick — this isn’t the easiest topic to broach with you. And I apologize for dropping in unannounced like this, but I had to retain a level of secrecy — and to that end, you’re going to keep the fact that you and I talked just now quiet. Understand?” 

I just nod, knowing Bruce. “Aye-aye, Cap’n. So what’s going on?” 

Speaking has come so much more easily since I moved home, and having pets nearby is particularly helpful with my stutter. I’d read somewhere that pets had therapeutic effects, something I certainly believed, but had never experienced on any tangible level until now. I’m especially grateful to Princess and Brucely for joining us out here, because it’s obvious that whatever Bruce is about to drop on me is going to be profoundly heavy. 

“Well. I feel it’s time we talked. About what happened to you,” Bruce says, eyeing me soberly. “Artemis wanted to give it some more time, so you’d be more comfortably adjusted when you heard, but… given what I’m here to talk to you about, it needs to be said now.” 

My heart accelerates, pounding at once so hard I feel it in my ears as the blood rushes to my cheeks. 

I take a breath, and wait for my foster father to speak. 

“Do you have any suspicions about what happened?” Bruce asks. “Or as to who might have been responsible?” 

I keep a hand on Brucely’s head, the other on Princess’ back. “Umm… a few. L-luthor and Sportsmaster come to mind, mostly.” 

Bruce nods. “You’re two-thirds of the way there. The Joker had a hand in it, as well.” 

My stomach drops. “What…?” 

Again, he nods. “Best start from the beginning — Luthor broke Sportsmaster out of Belle Reve and hired him to _silence_ you. You’d found the smoking gun on his machines — the one that would link him directly to the metahuman trafficking rings he was involved in. Do you remember?” 

I nod, pushing aside the shock of hearing the Joker’s name brought up. “I remember that much, yeah. The f-files in the language I wasn’t familiar with and c-c-couldn’t turn up through normal sources.” 

“Yes. BPD’s forensics team found the thumbdrive in your jeans pocket after the attack. You’ll be glad to know it’s being translated by the Lantern Corps now, and they’re nearly through.” 

“What’s in the f-f-files?” I ask. 

“We can get into that at a later time,” Bruce says. “I don’t want you to worry about that right now, Dick. You have enough going on as it is, and I’m going to ask you to do something that will require a lot more of your attention before I leave today. Worrying about the security of the globe shouldn’t even be on your mind.” 

I clench my teeth, swallowing the retort that surges at my throat. With a forcible effort, I nod. “Okay, then. Wh-what are you a-a-a-asking me to do?” 

(Stress has never done anything good for my stuttering, FYI.) 

“We’ll get into that momentarily — I’d like to finish the story first. All sides.” 

I nod, and stoop over the arm of my chair so I can curl my fingers in Brucely’s ears. 

“When Sportsmaster was briefly freed, with Ma’ala’fa’ak taking his place in Belle Reve to maintain appearances, he took it upon himself involve the Joker in his mission,” Bruce goes on to explain. “I believe Luthor approached Sportsmaster to do his dirty work because he knew revenge was on Crock’s mind after your little showdown last May. Luthor _knew_ Crusher would see the job done.” He pauses, and takes in a breath. “But Sportsmaster did something Luthor didn’t expect or account for — he opted to bring in one of the worst torturers this world has seen in on his mission. He didn’t just want you dead, Dick — he wanted you to _suffer_ first.” He shakes his head. “And he not only brought the Joker in on the job, he manipulated Harley Quinn as part of his revenge plan, as well. Only… that side of his play was directed at Artemis.” 

My stomach starts turning and sinking, stirred and pressed down by an unseen hand. I don’t like where this is going. 

“Harleen had wanted a baby, Dick,” Bruce continues. “So badly that she and the Joker, who _didn’t_ want one, were on the outs — there was even talk of him _landing_ himself in Arkham to teach Quinzel something of a lesson.” 

I’m silent, listening. 

“Sportsmaster, however, doubtless knew that there was one baby the Joker would be thrilled to raise and use against me — my own grandchild. A Robin’s child.” 

A finger of sweat traces my spine between my shoulderblades as, sickened, I wait for Bruce to go on. 

“Crock, by all evidence, approached Harleen first — and after they freed the Joker from Arkham, she kidnapped Artemis the same night you were attacked.” 

My heart stalls. “What…” 

Bruce nods. “Quinzel intended to murder Artemis and _wrest_ Mary from her via C-section. Then she would have the baby she wanted — and she and the Joker would raise the child together.” 

The blood goes out of my face in a rush. My stomach all but falls out of my body. My hands start to shake. 

Artemis never told me any of this. 

I feel sicker by the second, and I sag in my seat, my hand limp on Brucely’s head. “Oh, Jesus, Bruce…” 

He nods, his mouth a grim line, his brows knitted. “Crock all but gave Artemis over to Harley Quinn to be slaughtered. His own granddaughter kidnapped and raised by a madman.” 

My heart starts thundering, with fury now every bit as much as shock and horror. “So what the hell h-h-happened?” 

“Artemis was able to free herself from her bonds, and bought herself time for rescue,” Bruce tells me. “Listen, Dick, she wasn’t seriously hurt —” 

“Physically, anyway,” I cut him off darkly. 

Bruce nods, his expression somber. “Right. Of equal importance, Mary made it through the ordeal, as well. But events like that, and the knowledge that your own father facilitated them… they leave a mark, Dick.” 

My heart, still hammering, sinks into my turning guts. I’m quiet, although I feel a tear hit my cheek. I swipe it away, the weight of everything I’ve just been told coming down on me like a weighted, murky pall. 

Everything Artemis went through. Everything done to her, all the horrors those monsters subjected her to. All the evils intended for our baby, all the risks posed to her, all the danger she was in. Everything her mother had to fight and endure to protect her — 

And I wasn’t there. 

_I wasn’t there._

I grit my teeth, and just let the tears come as they will — hot and angry, full of bitterness and loathing. 

How had this, any of it, happened? _How —_

I was Nightwing, I had mopped the floor with Sportsmaster, I had defeated the Joker on my own more times than I could count on both hands, I was at the top of my game — 

_How did I fall so far?_

“How d-d-d-did I l-l-let this happen?” I sob, and scrub, frustrated, at my eyes. The stutter is back full-force. “ _H-h-h-how_ did I let them b-beat me —” 

“You didn’t let anyone do anything,” Bruce assures me, surprising me when he reaches across the space between us and takes my hand. I don’t know if I’ll ever grow fully accustomed to this more affectionate version of my glacial foster dad — even if I don’t mind the change. “Least of all beat you. What forensics could tell us is that you were lured to your apartment and the Joker had the shotgun poised to fire the second you opened the door.” He exhales, and I _see_ the anguish as it crosses his face. “It struck your abdominals and exited through your back at the first lumbar — at 1,300 feet per second. You’d have lost movement before you could so much as blink.” He pauses, as though needing to assimilate the sour taste the words leave on his tongue. “…There’s not much you can do when you take a wound like that, Dick. You of all people know this — and they knew it, too.” 

I grip his hand, again _cursing_ the world — hating myself, hating the Joker, hating Sportsmaster, hating Luthor, even hating Harley Quinn. Resentment and fury brim in my chest, rising to my throat, plugging it. If I could get up out of this chair, if I could just fucking do it — I’d waste no time finding them. And I’d finish the job on Sportsmaster’s teeth, shatter both his _and_ the Joker’s lumbars and see how their twisted, sadistic asses liked it and assure the world they’d never inflict harm on another soul. Leave Harley locked away in solitary to rot. Hurl Luthor in the clink after public humiliation. Fulfill the promise to my daughter and Artemis that those bogeymen would never trouble them again. 

But I _can’t._ I’m stuck — here, at home, in this chair. Those beasts got what they wanted — mostly. And the best I can do is passively hear this terrible story and realize my role in it has diminished into that of a pathetic spectator, emasculated and helpless. 

And just as I thought in the hospital those months ago, I realize I let it happen. I was lured. I didn’t protect myself. I let my guard down. I was stupid. 

_Pride comes before the fall._

I was _so stupid._

Bruce is silent a moment, gazing soberly at me, before he speaks again. 

“Sportsmaster came after you not just because Luthor paid him to, but because he had his own vendetta to fulfill,” he says heavily. “And he didn’t just focus on you — he focused on Artemis, as well. He was unsuccessful — but that doesn’t mean he won’t make future attempts. Very likely… on all three of you.” 

I think about all of the nights that Artemis has lain wakeful, tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling or the screen of her phone or the pages of a book, turning on the television and gazing at it while it glows in the bedroom with no volume, disappearing downstairs or into the Outhouse or off on a midnight run. When she sleeps, it’s restless, hypnagogia at best, in and out. I dwell on how she sifts through her food, eyeing it as though it’s poisoned or harmful, the very sight of it apparently sickening her. I think of how I can feel her bones in too many places, of how I can see the unsettled light in her gray eyes — those now of a hunted animal, one determined to guard her homestead. I think of how she’s never sat still since I got home. 

She’s been Supermom to Mary. Supernurse to me. A loving, compassionate, supportive partner, unfailingly available no matter what time of day or night. She’s kept the house spotless, meals prepped, her work at DI completed, errands run. 

And this has been shadowing her mind all the while, lurking in every corner, waiting around every bend. All at once, a powerful surge of admiration comes over me, a renewed sense of awe and reverence — and a profound determination to do what I have to in order to make her fucking life at the moment even a little easier. I honestly don’t know how she’s still standing, and wondering over it all with an almost childish wonder only makes me love and venerate Artemis more deeply than ever — sappy, maybe, but true all the same. Alongside this pulse of emotion is the resolution that even if I can’t use half my body, even if my organs are failing and I can’t see properly out of one eye, even if my teeth are fake and my orbital is fixed with pins — I’ll protect that woman with every last inch of my life and strength, just as I always have and promised to, from every form of harm the world wants to throw at her. And I will guard our daughter — happily throwing my life down to see it done, if need be. 

It is, all of it, a hard, bulbous pill to swallow. But I’m thankful to Bruce for his unusual openness — I know, now, to be vigilant. And I _will_ be — if Sportsmaster dares show his face in my house, he’ll have another thing coming than catching his quarry unawares. He’ll swallow the rest of his teeth and never see the outside of solitary again. 

If he even _looks_ at Mary — I won’t _need_ my lower body to finish what was started last year. 

And Artemis won’t be carrying this alone anymore — I will shoulder this burden and haul it with her. 

“But that’s not what I’m here to tell you,” Bruce says, interrupting my thoughts. “Not the main thing, anyway. You… needed some context for what I’m about to tell you.” 

I nod. “I’m l-l-listening.” 

“Have you ever wondered where Artemis has been going, or what she’s been doing, on the occasions that she meets up with her sister and vanishes for hours on end?” 

I eye him a moment, studying his expression, reading him. I shake my head. 

“Well. She hasn’t been attending seminars or going to weddings,” Bruce says. He angles toward me, and produces the tablet I recognize as the device he uses as the Batman. He handles the screen, and pulls up a video. I watch, frowning. 

It’s a slim female in a black head-to-toe armored unitard, the gray prints of clawed paws marking the shoulders. A hooded cape, distinguishable as flame and impact resistant by its sheen, hangs close to her unimposing figure. My brows knit. The uniform is identifiable as Huntress’ — Paula’s own gear from her con days. A mask covers the woman’s face, a cowl her hair. I catch sight of her profile as she steps into what appears to be a combat ring, and then my frown deepens when I notice Cheshire — Jade — standing to the side of her. 

Bruce pauses the video. 

“This is the newly reemerged Huntress,” he explains. “This woman has taken on the alias for the time being, and, as you can see, she dons the same insignia that Paula did — as well as the gear.” 

“Okay,” I say. I have a good idea of where this is going — I just hope I’m wrong for hundreds of reasons. 

“This new Huntress equally is in possession of Paula Nguyen’s sword,” Bruce tells me. “The blade that has been in Artemis’ care for years.” 

I gaze at Bruce a moment, organizing my thoughts through the abruptly resurfaced aphasia. 

“You th-think that Artemis willingly g-g-gave all this stuff to a mercenary?” I ask finally, once I’ve tolerably sifted through the noise in my brain. 

“No,” Bruce states flatly. “I think that Artemis _is_ Huntress. That she is the one in this video, in this costume, with this gear.” 

My brows descend to knit over the bridge of my nose. “…So you think that Artemis has taken on a new v-v-v-vigilante identity and gone off on a bunch of m-m-mysterious missions with her s-sister and not b-b-bothered to tell anybody?” 

“Yes,” Bruce says. “Although that’s not even the half of it.” 

I try not to think too hard on the implications of Artemis lying to me over something so enormous, _deceiving_ me like this — when she’s never held a thing from me before. 

“Why, though, B-b-bruce? Is she t-t-trying to track down her f-father?” 

“Worse.” Bruce eyes me soberly. “I believe she not only plans to find him, but fully intends to _kill_ him once she has.” 

I’m quiet as I allow this to sink in a moment, turning this over in my mind. 

Then, I shake my head. “She w-wouldn’t do that, Bruce.” 

“Dick, why wouldn’t she? She of all people has every reason on this earth to want Lawrence Crock dead. And if she didn’t plan on murdering her father, why the need for all the secrecy? She’d accomplish finding Crock a lot faster if she involved her friends and family in her efforts. So why has she lied? Why has she gone to so much trouble to hide this facet of her life from those around her if she doesn’t have nefarious intentions?” 

Again, I shake my head. 

I don’t believe. I can’t. There is _no_ damn way. 

The fact is, Artemis has already endured the burden of taking a life — and I can _see_ the effects that one horrific incident has had on her, even now, to this day. And it’s not as though Melko didn’t totally deserve to have his wasted, shitty life snuffed, just as it’s not like her father is unworthy of getting taken off the board before he can harm others — but that doesn’t matter. Like a heart, a life is a heavy, heavy burden. 

If Artemis still shrieks in her sleep, waking sweating and crying after nightmaring over accidentally ending the life of some twisted crime lord in an effort to _defend_ her then ten-year-old self, I can’t imagine she would ever deliberately increase that burden, no matter what the circumstances might be — and especially not by adding the life of her own father to the yoke she bears. 

Besides — who’s to say that Artemis hasn’t simply opted to turn a blind eye to Cheshire’s own certain desire to get rid of their monstrous father, and given her sister the gear to see the job done, no questions asked? Sure, the concept of Artemis willingly aiding and abetting a murder mission on the part of her sister isn’t a particularly comforting one, either, but it’s not like one would fail to condone or even just _understand_ her for such a thing. As far as I’m concerned, if this is the path that Artemis has taken, there’s not a soul that has a goddamn right to criticize her on this — and I’ll defend and protect her until all my breath is gone. 

Still, the thought that she’s _hidden_ this, any of it, from me sits like a rock in my turning stomach, a morsel impossible to digest. 

I snap back to it. I’ll worry about that part of things later. It’s selfish to feel miffed about Artemis not feeling up for sharing something so massive and sensitive, anyway. 

“Bruce,” I say, gesturing, attempting to sound reasonable, “c-c-come on. You d-don’t even know that’s d-d-d-definitively her in that v-video.” 

“Dick, I am _extremely_ confident that the woman in this video — Huntress — is very much Artemis Crock,” Bruce tells me. “I confronted her — and I’ve come to know Artemis’ combat style comfortably well over the years. When she’s avoiding a hit, she performs a distinctive toe-drag maneuver — one I’ve not seen utilized by anyone other than her, and one that to her is entirely reflexive. She’s not even fully _aware_ of it, Dick.” He leans toward me. “Huntress utilized that same toe-drag when I came upon her in the abandoned subway system where Roulette’s fighting ring was held.” 

My heart sinks when I remember the severe cut on Artemis’ cheek three weeks ago — the same night this video was taken. I decide not to mention it to Bruce. 

Then come to mind the sudden waterworks, the obvious duress that befell her — 

_No,_ I tell myself. _Still explainable. She could very well have left to make a gear drop-off for this new Huntress and even offered to be the getaway driver. Maybe — maybe that’s why she’s lying — maybe she_ knows _Chesh is trying to kill Crock, and she’s aware she could be just as accountable if she were caught_ helping _her in the endeavor…_

_But why would she keep it from me, she’s never hidden anything from me before, unless she just doesn’t want me to worry —_

I shake myself. “This Huntress partook in the f-f-fighting ring?” 

“She did,” Bruce says, “and it’s my belief she and Cheshire were there because Sportsmaster was on the card.” 

“Bruce,” I say, “why are you h-h-h-here telling me this?” 

“I need you to confirm that Artemis is Huntress,” Bruce tells me. 

“Bruce, d-d-d-don’t ask me to do that,” I snap, jerking to rise, unable to. “You _c-can’t_ ask me to do that —” 

“Dick,” Bruce says, “I need you to do this.” 

“Why? _Why_ d-d-d-do you need me for it?” 

“Because if Artemis is involved in something so extreme,” Bruce tells me, “we would need proof, and we would need to put a stop to it.” 

“Who’s w-we?” 

Bruce eyes me impassively, his eyes dark and somber. “The League, Dick.” 

“Bruce,” I snap, suddenly furious, “you _can’t_ sit there and act all m-m-moral and noble when _she’s_ the one who’s g-g-g-gone through so much hell on earth. You’re t-t-talking about sitting her in front of a bunch of p-p-p-people who are _removed_ from the situation, who’ll skin her alive if they even _think_ she’s considering m-m-m-murder —” 

“Dick,” Bruce cuts in, his voice unwontedly gentle, “that’s why I’m asking _you_ to confirm. If what I suspect is the case… if she’s donned the identity of Huntress and she intends to kill her father, you know it’s only a matter of time before _one_ of the members of the League finds out about it. What if it’s not until she’s already killed him? What then? Even if _I_ were to confirm her identity — I’d _have_ to bring her in. And even I couldn’t protect her from being tried or imprisoned, or even disbarred indefinitely if she were brought to the League for deceptively donning a new alias with the intent to murder. A lot may consider such behavior to be misconduct at the very least.” 

I sit helplessly, realizing I may be trapped. 

“You’re not under any obligation or agreement at the moment to turn her in if you were to catch her in any sort of misconduct,” Bruce says. “But the others _are_ — as am I. Dick… you have to do this. For her. Before it’s too late — before she does something she can’t take back.” 

I’m quiet, feeling overwhelmed and sick, my body begging me to take it upstairs and rest it a moment before attempting to assimilate everything I’ve just been told. 

“She wouldn’t, Bruce,” I murmur after a moment, thankful when the stutter doesn’t come to the fore. “Just trust me on this. There’s another explan-explanation, here.” 

“If there is,” Bruce says, “then find it quick. And if there’s not… you need to handle it. As swiftly and judiciously as possible.” 

My back sweats, trailing tickly fingers down my spine, the sensation of cold feelers disappearing at my middle. 

Finally, I nod. 

“I’ll do what I c-can,” I say. “But… you’re wrong, B-bruce.” 

He rises, and gazes down at me for a long, teeming moment. 

“I hope I am.” 

******* 

Business as usual. 

The number one cure not only for incessant, screaming nightmares about leering clowns and hulking meatheads and omnipotent tyrants — but also for uncomfortable side missions that force you to look at your partner sideways, to wonder constantly at what she’s doing and where she’s going, to read deeper meaning into even the simplest of proclamations. 

_I’m heading to the basement to do some laundry_ transforms instantly into _I’m heading to the basement to touch base with Jade and chat over all the ways we can castrate Dad and light him on fire and dance around the blaze._ When your offers to help are declined (likely because you’re healing from ocular surgery as well as dental implant surgery, along with a nasty case of bronchitis that hit you as suddenly as a toilet seat falling out of the sky from a Russian space shuttle), you assume that’s because she’s conferring with her partner-in-crime, and God forbid you drop some eaves on whatever diabolical schemes they’re cooking up for their old man. 

I could firm things up in the matter of a single moment — in less than thirty seconds, I could hack into her phone, her email, all of it, and spy on her correspondence with Jade. Even her deleted messages could be recovered in a few minutes. I could have Barbara, M’gann, or Zatanna follow Artemis on one of her outings with Jade. I could have Jason check his sources to see if there’s anything there. I could ask Roy if he’s seen or heard anything from his spouse that might be of interest. I could even scour the house or Outhouse for the Huntress gear, check for signs of use. 

_None_ of that, however, sits well with me — and I refuse to deliberately invade Artemis’ privacy so grossly. Even under this set of extenuating, Batman-induced circumstances, that’s a totally fucked up thing to do to a total stranger — let alone your partner and the mother of your child. 

And no matter how it looks, no matter what’s truly happening here — I trust Artemis. I trust her fully and completely. I won’t betray or desecrate that trust by willfully violating her. If something crops up, I’ll deal with it — but I would prefer to allow it to rise to the fore organically, in its own time. 

It’s surreal to think it’s been several months since I came home, over two now since my conversation with Bruce and my discomfiting “mission” first began. At least there’s been nothing to report so far — no suspicious outings with Jade, no whispered conversations when her sister arrives to drop off Lian per the norm every Friday so that Jade and Roy can go on their customary weekly dates, no attempts on Artemis’ part to hide her phone screen or computer from me. In fact, things have been so quiet and boringly _normal_ that I might have forgotten I’m supposed to be keeping tabs on my girlfriend — except Bruce checks in on things every goddamn day. 

Figures. 

But the lack of news at least is a giant middle finger I can send to Bruce each time he asks for a report, and a continual confirmation that he's wrong, wrong, wrong. 

And setting aside the crap position that my foster father’s stuck me in and all the horrors and resentments of processing everything that he told me about what happened last summer — myriad improvements and joys have continually made their way into my daily rhythm. I mean, sure, life is certainly more strenuous now, even just in doldrums and humdrums — I explained to Artemis that life in a wheelchair in and of itself isn’t the hard part. It’s that everything around me isn’t really set up to accommodate said wheelchair, and that’s where the _real_ difficulty comes in. Even then, however, it’s not as hard as I thought it would be when I left the hospital — just not exactly _convenient_ when the time to leave the house and navigate the world comes. But it’s gotten easier and easier to integrate, each day bringing with it the growing sense that my chair has become my legs, and moving with the corresponding instinct — just as Paula told me. 

So any time sorrow crops up in response to the intimidatingly lifelong changes in front of me, I focus instead on the gains I’ve made since coming home — and the heartening plans I’ve laid and put into motion with Tim and Barbara’s help since my final ocular surgery. I have a lot of intentions that I _will_ make good on, now I’ve settled into a comfortable routine at home. I not only laid the groundwork for a specific goal with Tim and Babs, but gathered Wendy Harris’ contact information from M’gann and Conner, too — when Wendy has recuperated from her own accident, my friends will put us in touch, and organize a time for us to meet. 

“It’s such a good thing you’re doing,” M’gann said when I discussed with her my intentions to reach out to Wendy, a newly minted paraplegic much like myself. “I mean, to think her mom died last winter and she’s been so removed from everyone — Marvin included — since she relocated for work… no one should have to be so _isolated_ after something like that.” 

I nodded. “Agreed wholly and completely, M’gann. And trust me — on that note, I _know_ how lucky I’ve b-been. No way am I going to let others less lucky be left to d-d-deal on their own and have their only source material on the subject be all those totally ignorant books and movies that continuously insist that the only response to loss of mobility is assisted s-suicide.” 

She hugged me, and kissed my cheek. “This is why you’re what the League calls a champion of justice, Dick.” 

I waved a hand, and shook my head. “Nah. Just doing the right thing — being a warm body to those who need some company and sticking it to harmful message-perpetuating pop culture.” 

The only thing I’ve not done is make any solid plans regarding going back to work. Syl has recommended I give it enough time to grow fully accustomed to my new life before incorporating an intrusive facet into my routine. But that has its advantages — I’ve had plenty of opportunity to make up for lost time with my daughter. 

Mary is walking now — her first steps something I bore joyful witness to — and poised on the cusp of her first birthday. She’s also speaking discernible words here and there, articulating “Dad” with a heartwarming consistency. (Sorry, Uncle Jason, but it seems you’ve been demoted.) Seeing her grow and learn and develop is a lot like reenacting the Grinch on a daily basis — ready or not, there goes my heart, growing two sizes by the day. 

She’s a smiley, happy-go-lucky, and remarkably energetic child, something that, just to witness and enjoy, keeps a pep in my own proverbial step. Having discovered mobility, she’s taken to sprinting clumsily back and forth across the living room for frequently an hour at a stretch, squealing with delight as she pounds through each lap. Apart from the love she’s shown for moving at high rates of speed on foot, she exhibits a particular propensity for cats, dogs, and horses — only regressing into crawling when she’s imitating them. 

Given her energy and her advanced motor skills, I’ve taken it upon myself to invite her onto my exercise mat when I’ve completed my at-home physical therapy routines (and, more recently, the simple act of independently working out), teaching my daughter the early stages of tumbling, guiding her through somersaults and backbends over the small exercise ball we own. Artemis loves to watch these routines, maintaining her role as spectator when I first invited her to join. 

“I can do a decent handstand, babe — but acrobatics are _your_ realm,” she told me warmly, sitting by Paula with a cup of tea. “You’ll be a much better hand at showing Mary the ropes than I will be.” She snorted. “You’d probably just have to unteach her everything I showed her and start from scratch, anyway.” 

I chuckled. “You can teach her m-m-marksmanship and some of that badass Muay Thai, how’s that?” 

Artemis grinned. “Ah, a child’s first projectile launcher and introduction to violence… and swear words!” 

“What can I say,” Paula said with a chuckle, “it’s in her genes.” 

All of us laughed out loud. 

So while Artemis coaches our newly vocal daughter in both English and Vietnamese, I’ve taken over introducing her to the fun of _motion._ And as Artemis observed, the girl is undeniably a Grayson — a natural acrobat, even at the ripe age of three days from one year old. 

My favorite time of day is after these exercises and Mary’s bath — when I lie with her on the mat on the floor, her head cushioned on my chest, mine on a throw pillow. Artemis reads to Mary, lying supported against my side, all manner of books that Jason habitually brings from the library. I rest after the strain of each day, taking in the sweet scent of my daughter’s hair and skin, perfumed with the baby shampoo and lotion that Arty uses on her, and enjoying the accustomed, well-known aroma of Artemis’ own composition oil. It’s the one time that Mary is willingly still and quiet — and these moments are uniquely, wonderfully peaceful, carrying on them a serenity not commonly found in our current daily life. When the time comes, I place Mary on my lap, and bring her up on the lift to the top floor, something she always enjoys, and Artemis and I put her to bed together. 

My only regret is that Artemis’ sleep still doesn’t seem to have gotten any more restful — something I’ve tried to help her with, but just can’t seem to. Bruce has remonstrated time and again at me not to share any of the details of our conversation with Artemis — but even if he hadn’t, I know that my partner would be distressed to learn that my foster father had given me the gory details of the event that landed me eternally in Yolo Swaggins’ embrace. And that aside, if she hasn’t shared with me her own horror story, I won’t press her to — she can open up when she’s ready. 

So I haven’t expressed to her that she’s not alone, that she doesn’t need to feel she carries the load of protecting our child and home on her own. Not yet, at least. Instead, I’ve worked hard on generating self-sufficiency and maintaining my independence. I’ve also subtly hired a cleaning service _(for my sake, Arty — I don’t want to bother with the pushy-sucky if I don’t have to!)_ and taken on cooking most nights of the week _(I’m booooored, Arty!)_ to take some of the pressure off Artemis, allowing her a little more downtime and opportunity to rest and relax at home. She wasn’t thrilled about the cleaning service at first, but she got over it pretty quickly when, as she put it, “Uh, well, I _thought_ that cleaning was something I could and _should_ do my damn self, but now I don’t have to… it just hit me I actually have time to brush my hair.” 

In the meantime… business as usual. 

I’ve been exercising — working my upper body _hard,_ getting to know how to work my form with its current parameters around combat scenarios. If Crock shows up looking to start some shit, I’ll gladly finish it. If he’s not putting one over on me, taking cheap shots catching me by surprise, I won’t need the use of my legs to send him shuffling off on a Walk of Shame with his severed balls in a knapsack. 

As for the Joker and Harley, Jason has agreed to come over with some coffee and new books soon — he says it’s going to be a bit of serious talk. 

So I’ve prepared for that, and I’ve gotten some other vehicles in motion, too — the final step toward making my first active move against Luthor from my present position now in the palm of my hand, thanks to Tim. 

“I appreciate this, Tim,” I say, looking at the hololens he’s given me, complete with Babs’ customized augmentations. “This should d-do the trick.” 

“Glad to help. Speaking of all this — how’s the aphasia coming along? It’s not going to affect your game, is it?” Tim asks. 

“At this point, no — it’s _worlds_ better,” I tell him with a smile. “I mean, I still have moments where I’ll think of s-s-something and can’t seem to actually get it out of my brain — but those moments are getting noticeably fewer and farther between. The meds and c-cognitive therapy are _finally_ helping.” I chuckle. “Only took like half a year to show even an inch of an effect…” 

“Well, better late than never,” he says, smiling back. He indicates my new glasses. “How are you adjusting to life as a legitimate bespectacled nerd?” 

I laugh. “To be honest, I feel kind of like I’ve leveled up — and this isn’t even my final form, LBBFF.” 

He grins. “Nerd EXP, unlocked. Next level — plus, they make you look _smart,_ BBBFF.” 

Given how commonly I wore sunglasses to hide my identity, it’s not been a difficult enterprise to adjust to specs — although there are moments that I don’t immediately recognize myself when I catch my reflection in the mirror. That, however, I know will come in time, much like the rest. I just try, like the other things, not to think on it too hard. 

“You mean I didn’t look smart before?” I ask, adopting a wounded expression. 

Tim slowly shakes his head. “No. No, way. You looked like the _poster child_ for Dumb Jocks, Inc.” 

I pat my heart. “Nailing me right there, bro. Majorly uncool.” 

He laughs, then glances at his watch. “Well. Much as I’d like to hang out a little longer, I need to head out. Batman business.” 

My stomach lurches, but I retain a casual facade. Batman business doesn’t mean it pertains to Artemis — or Huntress. “No problem. Go get your Dynamic Duo on.” 

He squeezes my shoulder. “Let me know if you have any questions about that thing, although I’m sure you’ve got it from here.” 

I nod. “Should be good.” 

“Have you told Artemis about any of this yet?” 

I shake my head. “I’d rather wait until its maiden voyage — see if this ship actually sails first. Not only does Arty have enough on her plate without her gent experimenting with something pretty big, but if it winds up a bust, I’d rather just spare myself the indignity after all the times she’s had to actually wipe my can for me.” I shrug. “I mean, I have to _try_ to look cool wherever I can these days, you know?” 

He chuffs a bit. “Fair enough. But Dick, trust me, it’ll work — and we could seriously use something like what you’re planning on the field. It’s going to be a _godsend_ to the Team.” 

“Think so?” 

“Oh, yeah. Babs is all over this like white on rice.” His wrist comm beeps, and he grimaces. “Well. Better get moving.” 

“All right. See ya, Tim — and thanks again.” 

He runs into Artemis on his way out, and after they chat a moment, she comes over to me, and gives me an ear-to-ear grin. I cock my head at her when she approaches my chair, all but bobbing on her toes with uncontained excitement. 

I grin back at her. “Well, you look like a cat that just got away with a gallon of cream. What’s up?” 

“Maybe I _am_ a cat that got away with a gallon of cream,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “I… might or might not have something for you outside.” 

“Oh?” I say, wheeling after her as she leads the way to the door. “You’d think it was _my_ birthday in three days, not Mary’s.” 

She chuckles. “Well, I had to wait on this one and order it when you were ready.” 

“When I was ready?” 

She holds up a finger, indicating that I should wait. “One sec.” 

She heads into the garage, and when she comes back out, she’s pushing the most futuristic looking wheelchair I’ve ever seen in front of her — and I’ve seen a lot of sci-fi and cyberpunk movies, so that’s _really_ saying something. The thing looks like a suped-up Shark bike, with its semi-reclined seat, three wheels, and design that places its chassis close to the ground. Its piping is blue, the seat black — a color scheme the significance of which I don’t overlook. When she turns the chair around, I see a Nightwing sticker placed on the back of the seat. 

My jaw goes slack as I stare, soaking in its greater meaning, overwhelmed a moment. 

“Oh, wow, Arty…” I say, my jaw slackening even more as I gaze at it in surpassing appreciation. 

“Do you like it?” she asks. 

“It’s amazing.” I wheel up to it so I can study it in better detail. I give it a nudge — perceptibly lightweight, clearly maneuverable. “Probably ought to name it Silver Bullet — looks like I could comfortably outrun a werewolf with this thing.” 

She laughs happily. “Well, you probably could, and that _is_ the idea. It’s a custom-built athletic chair — I commissioned it back in June. You can take this thing at top speeds on the worst roads — like we’re talking Pa Kent’s driveway — and it’ll hold up.” 

I handle the arm crank, getting a feel for it, even as I chuckle. “That’s awesome.” I look up at her, now nothing but serious, and reach for her to take her hand. “Arty… thank you. Really. Thank you.” 

She smiles. “So you _do_ like it?” 

“Arty, it’s perfect,” I tell her honestly, overcome with gratitude and profoundly moved by this gesture. “‘Like’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.” 

“Good, babe. I thought maybe you and I could start doing runs together — you know, like we used to. My mom said she’ll keep an eye on Mary for us and Dr. Thompkins okayed it, you know, as long as you’re feeling up for it —” 

“Hell. Yes,” I say, and pull her to me to drop a kiss on her lips. “And I vote we get started right now — while Mary’s napping.” 

Artemis’ smile morphs to a grin. “Right on, Boy Wonder. Let me just get changed.” 

“Right behind you,” I say, and we head back inside to get ready. 

It’s a muggy day — the air close and hazy, reminiscent of the weeks leading up to Artemis’ due date just after we’d moved into the house. Somehow, the hot damp in the air feels nostalgic as we make our way to the path that runs alongside the river — our old route, the one we beat upwards of four or five times a week. I sigh, a sensation of melancholy coming over me as I consider those days — some of the happiest and best of my life. 

I opt not to dwell on those feelings minus a focus on the warm fondness they instill in me, and instead concentrate on the new chair — the sharp, aerodynamic feeling of it, sensing the power and speed waiting under my fingers. I can _feel_ the efficiency in the chair with each rotation of the arm cranks, how quickly and far it moves forward with each push. It’s going to be tough going, returning to Yolo Swaggins after zooming along at this bad boy’s max capacity. 

Still. It hits me, _hard,_ that I miss running — sensing the impact of the ground against my feet as I race across the roofs, the wind on my face as I leap from the ledges, the zero gravity as I deploy the grappling hooks to sail into perfect, arching somersaults. 

I take a breath. 

_It’ll be fun, Boy Wonder,_ I tell myself, _just as fun as actually running. You’ll see. Give it a chance._

Artemis smiles down at me. “You ready?” 

I nod. “Born ready, Tiger.” 

With that, we’re off. 

Watching Artemis’ graceful, steady gait beside me evokes so many memories of all the runs we’ve undergone together since first meeting back in 2010. Runs for training, runs for fun, runs for charity, runs for amicable competition. Running is conditioning for _everything —_ and a pivotal part of every mortal hero’s routine. For Artemis and me, it was an enjoyment, something we shared together as the only humans on the team. 

The last race we ran was Boston the year she got pregnant. She cleaned my clock, being more catered for distance races than I was (the half is more my jam.) I think on this now, feeling the speed of the chair as I crank it a little higher, taking it faster with each motion. A thrill goes through me at the feeling. 

“You gunning for revenge on me for Boston?” she chuckles, speeding up alongside me as we rush forward down the path. 

“Girl, I’ve been training for this moment every day since,” I state, and accelerate still harder. The wind catches the stray hair that streams under my helmet, kissing my face with soft, cool touches. The trees lining the path streak by faster and faster. Artemis’ arms pump with a mounting rhythm as she barrels hard at my side, hurtling forth to keep pace with me now. 

I’m smiling at this point, unable to help myself, awash with a newfound feeling of _freedom_ as I glide over the path, moving smoothly and swiftly. Artemis eventually drops back, allowing me to take the new ride for all its worth — testing its limits, and testing my own. 

It’s wonderful. 

When I hit the end of the path that splits off to the boardwalk and pier, I finally slow to a halt, breathless, my heart pumping, my face and body sweaty with exertion and heat. Artemis sprints after me for all she’s worth, laughing through her own ragged breathing as she catches up. I raise my arms in victory when she grinds to a stop, then bends over her knees to catch her breath. 

She straightens after a bit, and holds out her hand to give me a high-five. 

“I concede, Boy Wonder,” she says, grinning. “Vengeance achieved. What do you say we go undo all that work by celebrating your new ride and dentals with that diabetes food truck we used to love so much? Website says it’s out today.” 

I chuckle, still out of breath, knowing I’ll be feeling this tomorrow — but equally that every inch of soreness will be completely, completely worth it. 

Because — and I marvel with juvenile fascination over this — this high off cardio I’m on is the most like _myself_ I’ve felt since I first woke up. 

I reach my arms over my head. 

“I’m totally up for cutting my new teeth on some diabetes after that one,” I say. “Let’s do it.” 

She lays a hand on my shoulder, and we make our way, side by side, to the pier. 

******* 

The hololens sits on the desk in the Outhouse, seeming to gaze at me from its perch, all but asking, _What are you doing, just sitting there?_

I let go a sigh, ruminating. 

Artemis is working late this evening, providing translation work for Jack at a white tie event that has all sorts of high society one percent business bigwigs dropping in from all over the world. Although I hated myself for doing it, I confirmed the event’s existence, ensuring it wasn’t a ruse — perfectly legit. (I enjoyed rubbing Bruce’s nose in that one.) She left the house after we put Mary to bed looking positively stunning in her wine red formal gown, her hair blown out into a gorgeous cascade of rosy gold. Humorously, the shoes she wore boasted a small heel — nothing over the top. 

“No heels for you,” I told her lightly as she bent to kiss me goodbye. 

She laughed, and pointed to her cheek, healed over now. “Never again. If bunyans weren’t enough to scare me away, _this_ certainly was.” She straightened. “So — I’ll try not to be too late. Ring me if you need anything, okay? I’ll keep my cell handy.” 

I grinned. “Can do, milady. Now — go get ‘em, Tiger. And don’t get eaten alive by all the rabid one-percenters.” 

She laughed. “I’d crack a joke in return, but I’d rather bring up that there wasn’t a single stutter, there, stud,” she said, and kissed me one more time. “Love you.” 

“Love you, too, babe — have fun.” 

“I’ll try. You know what they say… live dangerously.” 

“Or deliciously,” I said, and she laughed as she headed out. 

I texted Bruce. 

_You’re going to feel very silly when all this H talk turns out to be nothing._

He replied, _I certainly hope so._

I gazed at that text, and sighed. 

Reminders of the mark on Artemis’ cheek rankled. 

I shoved it out of my mind, and turned my attention to my little experiment in the Outhouse. I nabbed Princess, and headed across the backyard to reach the detached garage. 

Now, considering all the myriad options represented by the small hololens on the desk, I let my gaze shift to the acrobatic rings — still hanging in their customary place from the vaulted ceiling. 

_I wonder…_

I gently nudge the cat to the ground, wheel to the rings, and position myself beneath where they soundlessly dangle, beckoning to me without words. I close my hold over their curvatures, and close my eyes, feeling the rough material under my palms, molding my grip to them. 

_Live dangerously._

_Live deliciously._

Memories of shouts and cheers flood into my hearing, invigorating my muscles, awakening them. I remember the sound of Jack Haly’s voice, punctuating the excitement of the audience. I tighten my grip, feeling my arms, back and core flexing. I take a breath, release it. 

_Okay, Flying Grayson,_ I tell myself. _Let’s do this._

I open my eyes, and _pull._

The familiar strength shifts through my body as I pull, then push, and then, with a thrill, find myself suspended from the rings, my weight supported on my hands, my legs hanging freely beneath me. It’s a different sensation without the use of my lower body to stabilize my form, but the big thing is that I’m _here —_ floating as I once did, high over the ground, free within the air. I arch, shifting my pose, until my arms are flush at my side. My legs descend limp from my midsection — but my torso hovers in a graceful crest, almost perpendicular to the ground. 

_Like a robin._

A grin breaks out across my face, followed by a spill of tears. I close my eyes, feeling my arms ripple as a shake begins in them, straining now. I grit my smiling teeth — determined to hold this just a moment more. 

Just a little longer. 

I release myself to the chair below me with a loud, relieved outbreath, and rest a moment, leaning my head against the back of the seat. I breathe in and out, the tears coming in thankful streams. I reach up, and grasp a ring, holding it tightly, as though it’s the hand of a dear, dear friend. 

Then, gathering myself, I turn Yolo Swaggins, and approach the desk. Checking the hour, I feel my heart pick up with a thrill. 

It’s time. 

“Come here, Princess,” I call, gratified when the cat comes rushing over to leap onto my lap. Settling in, I spin up my hand-built desktop computer, the one Tim crafted for me over the last month to replace the one lost in the apartment fire, and position the hololens and earpiece. "Let's do this..." The connection establishes itself, and then I hear Babs’ voice murmur into my ear. 

“Well, greetings, nerd,” she says warmly, and I chuckle. “You’re officially online.” 

“Oracle ready to rock and roll,” I say, opening up the requisite applications on my computer, drawing them up across the duo monitors. “What’ve you got, Batgirl?” 

“We’re en route from the Metropolis Zeta Tube to the coordinates you sent — hit me, O.” 

“That’s what she said,” I say, and Barbara snorts. “You’re headed to a place called Van Zandt’s — quarry is looking like another metahuman trafficking stop for sure. Cover is a gas station and repair shop just outside the city. This shop actually specializes in semi truck repair — three different trucking companies are clients.” 

“That’d be a good cover for transferring subjects,” she says. 

A wash of momentary disorientation comes over me as I see through Barbara’s eyes, the images all coming into view through our connected hololenses. I take a breath, and reanchor. 

Okay. Rock and roll. 

“Exactly. I mean, think about it, vehicles run through there all the time — if it’s treated like a checkpoint or what have you, you b-bring the trucks into the back for ‘service,’ make the transfer, and it all looks to the outside world like the trucks are getting prepped for oil changes or some repair or another. You can even really comfortably launder the money garnered. Getting original blueprints now, when you’re close enough we can run a scan and see if there are any hidden rooms or subterranean mad scientist labs or what have you.” 

I send Babs the blueprints. 

“Oh, look at that…” she says happily. “A structure that you could easily add to below the radar.” 

“It’s somewhere to start. Listen, the manager of the gas station is a guy named Martin Van Zandt. Family man living in a suburb outside the city — he has a daughter with MS and a _lot_ of medical debt. Now, he makes a pretty tidy living with his shop and gas station, but he’s got five other kids and his wife is a stay-at-home.” 

“Ah. Falling behind on finances?” 

“Yeah. Even a surgeon might at that rate. Anyway, recently he paid off a fair portion of the medical bills — and I feel compelled to mention that his family is far from rich, and he doesn’t seem to have many loaded friends, either. Unless you count Luthor’s hypothetical underlings paying him to let criminal activity run through his business in the equation.” 

“Right. Either way, the apparent sudden influx of cash probably wasn’t a gift.” 

“It’s not likely.” 

“In that case — and I’m sure I’m preaching to the choir — you’ll need to do some probing along this web, see if there’s any direct connection to Luthor, here — you up to the task, Oracle?” 

“Always, BG. Give me a second to turn up Van Zandt’s bank accounts and see what I can find.” 

Barb halts, now seated on her cycle a ways off from the station and repair shop. Her team waits alongside her. I begin the search, a satisfied smile tugging at my lip. 

Business as usual — and I am back in the game. Maiden voyage is slated to be a success. I honestly can’t wait to tell Artemis when she gets home later. 

And, like Sportsmaster, Luthor’s going down — one step at a time. 


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER 8**

_Artemis_

Work is its usual self, with its marble floors and gigantic plants, the mix of office smells, disinfectant, and air freshener, the big windows overlooking Gotham City. I take a breath as I enter, as always grateful for this lone environment that remains stubbornly predictable regardless of what goes on outside its revolving glass doors. 

I left Dick sleeping soundly, all but legally dead to the world, after getting ready for work and ensuring that my mom was on for baby duty so he could get some well-deserved rest. Oracle work has kept him busy in recent weeks — and not only has his information brokering guaranteed a nigh 100% success rate in team missions, but it is, in fact, _so_ indispensable that the League and recognized independent heroes have begun to commission him on their operations, as well. It’s swiftly nearing a full-time position — and while Syl may have advised against full-time work to enable proper adjustment to home life for at least another month, the Oracle gig and Mary have proven by far the best medicine. He’s had a more pronounced appetite, higher energy levels, and a better humor since its inception — and to say I’m _oh, so proud of him_ would, quite frankly, be a lame and pitiful understatement. “Proud” doesn’t even begin to cut the mustard. 

My dad said more than once that you don’t have to kill someone to kill someone. _You take something a man_ really _loves from him, something that he can’t get back — and you’ve killed him_ worse, _baby girl._ I’m sure he lit on that as he attacked Dick, taking his valued attributes and identifiers from him before igniting the blaze that would have ultimately claimed his life, had Jason and Bruce not been there. 

_Well, Hairy Cock, you couldn’t have been more wrong,_ I think with a surge of pride as I have a seat at my familiar desk and boot up my work PC. I snicker inwardly with a bit of nasty vindictiveness when I think that Dad would have whole litters of kittens if he were to hear about all that Dick’s done with himself since Sportsmaster supposedly removed him from the board — not even getting into what implications the introduction of Oracle to the world will spell for Luthor (mwa ha ha!) His recent interview with Amy Rohrbach, his old BPD boss, and investigating officer Gannon Malloy also went swimmingly — what little pieces of recollection Dick was able to conjure from his patchy memory of July thirteenth last year proved surprisingly informative. 

If I had a mustache, I’d be twirling it — not to mention puddling into a starry-eyed pool of melted fangirl at Dick’s feet, were my body capable of such epic liquefaction. 

Dick is a man who was virtually defeated as a superhero _and_ an athlete. Theoretically, losing the use of half his body should have landed him on the bench for good. Disabling the body of a heroic or athletic figure in some way is always front page news, something for spectators to gawk and cluck at, isn’t it? Because it’s an _end_ or a _fall,_ right? _What a shame,_ they always say with a tsk, _so much talent, too… such a pity,_ as they bustle about their daily lives and shelve the poor fallen sports stars and heroes as tragic has-beens. They toss little prayers of thanks upward that it wasn’t them and go right back to not realizing how much more convenient their lives are for their unhindered mobility — all the while assuming that an immobilized superhero or athlete means a forcibly ended one. 

Dick has proven, quite clearly, that he hasn’t been defeated as _either_ — and has shown that he’s only equally, if not more, useful in his current form. He returned to coaching within a week of getting into the Oracle bizz, and already parents and trainers alike are clamoring for the opportunity to have the famous Flying Grayson coach their aspiring gymnasts and acrobats. Commonly, he brings Mary along, and M’gann or Zatanna join them both (schedules permitting) to keep an eye on her as he goes about teaching his classes. He’s taken to training the younger recruits on the team, too — volunteering his time once a week. More time means more focus — and this means more lives reached by his one-on-one tutelage. 

Babs, when she came over the other day with friends and family to belatedly celebrate Mary’s birthday, described the Oracle to me as an omnipotent force — something that gave them every tool and weapon that they needed to see every job done, every key to every lock. Forewarned is forearmed, and given that Dick is no longer dividing his attention over the mental _and_ physical aspects of a mission — meaning he’s able to go all in on being the brains of an operation without interruption — he’s provided something like perfect omniscience to the team and League alike before they head into the clutches of subterfuge, espionage, or combat. 

“It’s like the penultimate gift that we never knew we needed,” she told me, smiling over at Dick, who waved a hand and snorted — but visibly preened under her words. “Honestly, I don’t know how we ever managed before an Oracle.” 

“Truly,” Kaldur concurred, “he has proven quite the godsend.” 

I couldn’t have been more thrilled to hear these words, even if they instilled a mad curiosity to witness the Oracle in action, to go through a mission with him behind the info wheel and experience what seamlessness his intelligence provided. 

I guess it was inevitable that M’gann would pick that moment to ask when I wanted to come back to work on the team. 

I looked down at Mary, who sat on my lap, sifting through a mound of new Play-Doh, a birthday gift from Cassie, on the kitchen table. I ran a hand over her dark hair, and wormed my lip. I said I wasn’t sure, but maybe soon — there were some things I wanted to get off my plate first. (Heh.) 

Later that night, as I sat nursing her in the soft, moonlit shadows of her quiet room, Dick sleeping easily and peacefully in our bed down the hall, I rocked the chair with my foot, humming to her. Deep in thought, I studied the way her growing, thickening hair curled around her ears — little dark cowlicks, always a bit tousled in nature, just like her father’s. I traced the shell of her ear, the gentle rounding of her jaw, her cheek as she suckled, dwindling into sleep. According to some, she’ll need to be weaned soon; to others, there’s no rush. I inhaled, enjoying the sense of warmth and fuzziness that nursing has always given me, basking in the flood of heightened closeness it brings with it. I never feel more in love with my baby than when I nurse her — and I’m already pretty darn taken with Mary, a feeling that only grows by the day. 

I held her more closely to me, nestling her flush to my breast, leaning down and pressing my lips to her hair, leaving them atop the downy tresses. My brows furrowed when I remembered how my father had broken into our home at about this time last year, how quickly he shattered what should have been a beautiful time for the two of us (for the second time, considering that he landed her father in a hospital bed for months on end, _taking_ him from us for the entire duration of that same should-have-been-beautiful time) — and how this moment, sure to be sweet to the outside eye, could just as quickly be shattered in a breath. 

I’ve already determined that I won’t return to team duties until I’ve seen my father taken care of — _if_ I return at all, following. 

At my work desk, I pause in pulling up the documents I’m working on, and sigh while I ruminate on this, the farther-reaching meaning of what my present mission is weighing on me like a tank. 

Who’s truly been taken to the end-of-line, here, I wonder, who’s _really_ the one facing a pink slip? 

Because I can tell you it sure as hell isn’t Dick — not by a long shot. A shotgun shell, bludgeons, fire, and a coma couldn’t overcome him or keep his scrappy, stubborn ass down. 

But this… this might bring about my somewhat forcible retirement, in the end. This silent assassin working without physical harm, sans any sort of bodily evidence. Even if it gets harder by the week to leave my daughter for simple things like work or errands and that alone influences the difficulty I face in choosing my ultimate path, I know I’ll never be able to regard myself as a hero, once I’ve accomplished what I’ve set out to do. Heroes don’t take lives, play executioner — and they certainly don’t commit patricide. (Oh, la, good sir, the _scandal!_ Cue the headlines!) How do I return to work as a hero when I have blood on my hands, red in my ledger? So doesn’t that mean that my own heroic career will have come hurtling to a stop, not in a wash of my own blood — but my target’s? 

And pushing that simple logistic aside, I’m brought to my next trick — I don’t know how I’ll ever be someone my daughter can look up to or aspire to emulate, when I know what it is I’m planning on inflicting on her grandfather. 

A flickering of something like doubt pulls at me when I think on my life as Tigress, as Mary’s mother, as yet (somewhat) blameless. If I fulfill the task at hand, I can lay claim to neither. The question now has become — do I _want_ to give those things up, or retain my old values and just chuck Dad in the pen on the hopes that the bars will actually _hold_ this time? (Which, of course, they won’t.) 

And if I go through with my macabre intentions, what will I tell Mary when she asks about my own dad, which someday, she’s bound to? Will I dismiss her questions, say I don’t know whatever happened to him, give her some watered down story about him dying a long time ago without providing her any details? If she’s anything like either of her parents — and trust me, she is — I’d be naive to think she wouldn’t start looking into it just to appease her tireless curiosity later on in life. And then what? Am I just going to tell her that her grandfather did something terrible and I decided to remove him from the equation — for _her_ sake? What will I say if she ever tells me she wants to be like me someday? 

And what version of the story will she be given to explain why her father is the one in the wheelchair, of all the parents of the children at her future school? How will I explain to her what happened to alter his life so dramatically? All of the parents at her daycare have their full mobility — it’s safe to assume that Dick will be the odd one out come time for Mary to go to school, as well, unless there’s an aberrance in percentage dispersal and he meets a fellow paraplegic like himself. Doubtless, she’ll notice that, among all the dads at school, one of them is not like the others — that being her own. And given that Dick is still constantly in the public eye — whether he wants to be these days or not — _something_ about her father’s experience is bound to get to Mary at some point. Surely, she will start asking questions. 

And what will I _really_ say? What will I tell her? The truth? A partial truth? A lie? A lie by omission? 

I just don’t know. 

I pause, lighting on something, my hands stalling on the home row of my keyboard. 

One thing I _do_ know is that I do not want Mary to receive her answers from her grandfather. Even if I can’t call myself a hero as I fray the edges of the story I give her, as I lie about what happened to my father, as I go skipping off the edge to take the plunge into lifelong villainy — Sportsmaster will never be the one to answer her queries. 

When I think on all those months that Dick lay silent, that nightmare in Old North, the paternal night call, the time Dick sobbed into my shoulder when realizing his condition was permanent — my fists ball up atop the keys. 

All it takes is that one image of my father holding Mary, goading me as he did, with my mother knocked out on the floor beyond. The remembrance of him threatening to hurt my cat. The mind-drawn images of him ambushing Dick, lighting his apartment on fire. My father’s nauseating attempts to take heartless digs at my partner later as he recovered in the hospital. That he forked me over to Harley to be butchered, Mary to be fostered by raving, murderous lunatics. No never mind that I’m his daughter, Mary his granddaughter — it didn’t matter at all to him that we were his blood. 

Yes. I’ll sacrifice my role and identity as a hero. In a heartbeat. This goes beyond standard levels of acceptance. I’ll not allow so massive a risk to my family and loved ones to just walk around free to hurt them — and others. 

Loving fathers are a force to be reckoned with when they are protecting their brood. But they are not the last line of defense— no. _Mother_ is the last bastion. 

Dick has been far from indolent, as covered, and anyone that dared creep up on him would have another thing coming (watching the birdies go tweeting in circles around their spinning lines of sight after he lays them out on their sorry cans, for example), but he’s still at a major disadvantage against my cruel, bestial father if Dad were to attempt catching him unawares. And my dad is a bully — a wily, cunning, _lethal_ one, and one who bullies not out of insecurity and fear, but because he _likes_ it — but he’s a bully all the same. He’ll pick and push and ultimately _hurt_ my loved ones — just because he can. He’ll do it to make a point to me, his wayward, spirited baby girl, and to uphold his apprized rep. He’d kill his own granddaughter just to watch me hurt, and doubtless finish up what he started with Dick not because he needs to, but because he’ll do it to attempt _ruining_ me for daring to defy him. 

So if protecting my family means shucking the role of hero, giving up my place on the team, lying to my daughter about her grandfather, living a double life and deceiving those around me — I’ll do it. I’ll do it all. 

I am _Mother —_ the final line of defense. The last bastion. 

I’ll do what I need to do — even if that means sacrificing myself in the process. Even if it hurts, even if it brings guilt or regret, _I will do what is necessary._

Even as I feel a grim sort of gallows humor over my sudden alignment with characters like the Punisher, a familiar tide of anxiety rises at the thought of what Dad might do if he finds out about what Dick’s been up to — and sees his newfound work as an _insult._ The possibility of my dad showing up at the house to catch Dick unawares is one I’ve entertained more than once, but with this new line of thought, I wonder if Sportsmaster has been spurred to action. _Can’t have that punk kid showing me up, now, can I?_ Hearing the conjured sound of my father’s voice jerks my hand to my phone to check in with everything at home. 

_How goes it, Sleeping Beauty <3, _ I send to Dick, even as my fingers vibrate while I text. 

I breathe a sigh when I get a response shortly after. 

_Fine as frog hair,_ it reads. _Although I could use that fabled true love’s kiss to wake up properly :D h a l p ?? O:-)_

I breathe out. So far, so good. As I straighten, forcing myself to relax, I realize how profoundly I miss Dick and Mary. In a calmer frame of mind, now, the thought that I might be able to drop in on them for lunch occurs to me, and I send Dick another text. 

_:*) Think you and Mary will have time for lunch before coaching? Can I pick you guys up at noon?_

He replies, _Roger, Tigress! <3 We’ll be ready :-)_

I chuck my dark thoughts, and smile. 

It’s all right — for now. 

I take a breath and get to work, figuring I’ll plow and get a little ways ahead so I can afford a long lunch break with Dick and Mary, everything I sorely need after the heavy ruminations of the morning. I fuel up with some caffeine, banishing the cobwebs of sleep deprivation and fatigue, and Gary’s neverending farts and amiable prattling with a Glade plug-in and headphones. 

Three and a half hours until lunch — I got this. 

The time finally comes some five documents later, and I rise, lifting my keys, bag, and cell from the surface of my desk. I make my way out into the bright, muggy midday, pushing my hair over my shoulder. I humorously think that if the building didn’t have air conditioning, Gary’s ceaseless flatulence would create an active biohazard. 

I crest the gardens alongside the building, entering the parking garage. As I round the first row of vehicles, making my way to the Audi Bruce gifted me with last year, my footsteps gutter. My heart leaps into my throat. Only years of training and discipline keep my keys and phone in my hand, the bag on my shoulder. 

I halt where I am, keeping distance from the car. Subtly, I allow the bag to begin a slow slip down my arm. If it comes down to it, I can use it as a weapon — along with my cell phone and keys. 

Dick, Mary, and my mother as well, again cross my mind — and I curse myself for failing to text before I left the building. 

“What,” I snap with a gesture as I meet my father’s gaze while he comes around the bumper of my car, “the actual _hell_ are you doing here?” 

Dad, dressed in civvies, namely a too-tight tee-shirt that emphasizes his enormous shoulders and arms (deliberate, no doubt), leans against the trunk. 

“Just dropping in to say hi, baby girl,” he says with his trademark sneer/smirk, the leering quality of his voice spurious as ever. “Going by that greeting, one would think you aren’t too chuffed to see me.” 

“Your emotional intelligence continues to floor me,” I say. “You’re right. I’m not.” 

“You know,” he says, removing his weight from the car, standing now at his full height, “I find that one kind of tough to believe, considering you’re the one’s been six feet up my ass, following me around like a little puppy dog for months now.” He lifts a brow. “I would think you’d be _glad_ I saved you some work and met ya in the middle, here.” 

“I’m _working_ right now,Dad,” I say. “And I have somewhere to be. You have somewhere you’re actually going with this thrilling little discourse, kindly steer us in that direction. Otherwise, take your giant meathead ass on a long march off a short plank. Over very shark-infested waters.” I appraise him. “You’ll certainly feed them well.” 

His smirk deepens. “Ever heard of shark fin soup? Let’s just say some of this bulk came from that. So who’s feeding who?” 

I exhale, loudly. “Hilarious. Okay. Let me just put this in plain language, then — _off_ is the direction in which I’d like you to fuck.” I gesture. “Run along.” 

“I’m not in the business of taking time out of my schedule to just fuck off and run along,” he tells me, taking a step in my direction. 

I plant my feet, readying my stance. I’m in a maxi dress — not exactly the best duds for a brawl, but I fended Harley off in a similar dress, and that with a gigantic gut in my way, too. I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag. My muscles go live. 

“Oh, take your Xanax, girl — I’m just here to talk,” Dad says with an air of exasperation. “You don’t need to go gettin’ all hostile.” 

“I’m always hostile if I have to talk to that shit streak you call a face for longer than two words,” I snap. “Those two words being _’bye, Dad._ ” 

He snorts. “Well, let me ask you something, then, quick-like, and I’ll be on my merry way. Why you chasin’ your old man?” 

My jaw sets. “Why do you think?” 

He smiles, that same empty expression that never reaches his cold, flat eyes. “Setting you up to wipe the idiot boyfriend’s ass for the rest of his life comes to mind.” 

“Well, you’re getting warm,” I say. “In Tahiti, even. Although you’re not _quite_ hot just yet.” 

He nods, appearing satisfied. “Disagreed on that. But tell me something. You spoon-feeding Dickface these days? Pushing his chair around? Changing his bedpan? Let me ask you something — does your insurance cover Depends?” 

I resolutely hold my father’s eyes, not blinking as I do. 

“Even if I did all of the above,” I say, “I wouldn’t mind doing it for him.” I thin my lips. “What’s going to happen to you when you’re an old man, Dad? You think the Shadows want geezers working for them? You think you’re actually worthy in R’as’ or Talia’s eyes of the Pits? You think Luthor will spend his resources on ensuring your longevity?” I straighten my posture. “Don’t forget — when then time comes, I _am_ still your daughter. Meaning I still get to pick your nursing home. If I pick one at all.” 

He flat-out laughs. “You’ve always had heart, kid. And I gotta say — that idiot boyfriend of yours showed he had heart, too, before he started bawling like the gimp he is.” His laughter morphs into a sneer. “And any fighter’s all heart is a fighter fixin’ to wind up dead.” 

My face heats as my heart rate accelerates. 

“Dick isn’t dead,” I state. “And neither am I.” 

“Brings me to what I want to say,” Dad growls, no longer light. “You keep chasing me, trying to interfere with what I’m doing — you give that time, baby girl. You give that time.” 

I don’t look away. I don’t flinch. I don’t blink. 

“That a challenge?” I ask evenly. 

“A threat,” Dad growls, looming now. “Keep at your little revenge mission, getting underfoot and in my way, and I’ll take Dickface apart — limb by limb — and then snap you like the chicken you are.” He shakes his head, looking me up and down. “You look like you wandered out of Auschwitz these days — check your arm and I’ll find a fuckin’ tattoo there.” 

I don’t rise to the occasion brought up by his horrendous insult. 

“Challenge accepted, then,” I say, my brows lowering, “and threat met.” 

He sneers, and then, the tension between us so explosive now that it fixes to light the entire parking garage aflame, I hear a voice call out behind me. 

“Hey, Arty, you headed to lunch?” 

I turn, and catch sight of Gary as he rounds the entryway, shuffling his feet and sweating in the late August misery. The breath subtly goes out of me in a low, slow hum. 

“Yeah,” I say, grateful that my voice doesn’t shake with retained fury and strung-up nerves. I watch my co-worker as he approaches us — right now my unexpected guardian angel. Much as I’d love to throw down with Dad and just get this long-awaited confrontation over with, this is _not_ the time, and _definitely_ not the place. I _force_ calm, and take a breath. I don a smile, pretending normalcy. “Gary, have you met my father?” 

“I haven’t,” Gary says in his obliviously cheerful way, coming up beside me. He extends a sweat-soaked hand for my father to shake. I don’t miss the look of intense irritation as it crosses Dad’s features, now set to a false smile. Although Dad’s capable of blending in when the occasion calls for it, he _hates_ having to feign friendliness. “Nice to meet you, sir.” 

“This your boyfriend?” Dad asks, his voice dripping with scarcely contained derision. 

My own forced smile slides from my face, transmuting to a glare, a sudden protectiveness over my coworker cropping up in me. 

Gary laughs. “Oh, hardly. You _seen_ her boyfriend? Man, I can’t compete with that. I’m not even gonna try.” My dad palms his hand on his jeans leg as Gary continues, “I work with her in the translation department here at DI. She’s taught me everything I know.” 

Dad crosses his arms and grunts. “I’m sure that’s a treasure trove of knowledge outside of your mom’s basement and _World of Warcraft._ ” 

Out of Gary’s line of sight, I mouth, _Shut it, asshole._

“Oh, she’s brilliant,” Gary says, apparently not biting. “Don’t know where I’d be without her tutelage.” 

There’s a pause. Gary clears his throat. Dad barely shifts a muscle. 

“Well,” Dad says, “it’s been riveting. I’ve got somewhere to be, baby girl — so you just remember what I said.” 

“I’ve already committed it to memory in perfect totality,” I say. “’Bye, Dad.” 

He gives me that leer and nod, then turns. He lifts a hand. 

“Until next time — and there _will_ be a next time,” he calls. 

I don’t respond, just watching until he’s well out of sight. 

When he vanishes, I sag, and exhale. 

“You okay, Artemis?” Gary asks me, looking at me with intent and concern. 

I soften. I swear I could hug him right about now. I heave a deep, loud sigh, releasing some of the tension that’s rapidly burgeoned in my strung body. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I tell him, shaking my head. “My dad’s just… kind of a special brand of asshole.” 

“I’ll say,” Gary says, also shaking his head. 

“Seriously, Gary,” I tell him, exhaling, “thank you. I don’t think you realize what a huge favor you did me, showing up when you did.” I smile. “You were my guardian angel today.” 

He shrugs a shoulder. “Glad I could help. Man, your dad just has asshole written all over him. I mean, the guy can’t even _pretend_ to be polite — plus, a moron could sense the tension between you two from a mile off.” He smiles. “Figured I’d come defuse the very obvious situation a bit.” 

I gaze at Gary a moment, only going still warmer and softer. He doesn’t even realize how brave he actually was, interrupting my father the way he did. I just hope I don’t need to worry about him from here on, in case my dad regards him as so colossal an annoyance as to be promptly dispatched. Interrupting him might constitute a punishable offense to asshats like my dad. 

I look off in the direction my father went, and fight the sudden urge to tear up. 

I can’t take much more of this. It goes on one more day, and I might crack and murder my father in cold blood in the middle of the street for every human being in Gotham and the world to see. And I can’t make any promises that I wouldn’t utterly desecrate his blood-soaked corpse at this rate. Bye-bye, Tigress! Your days as a hero are long gone! 

What is _happening_ to me? My stomach turns, twisting and clenching. 

_Later, Artemis,_ my thinking mind, my rational side and voice of practicality remonstrates at me. _Later. You can handle this later. You’re angry and upset and rattled right now. Don’t let it get the best of you._

I take a deep breath, and give Gary a smile. I collect myself with a Herculean effort. 

“Gary,” I say, “did you want to join me and my family for lunch?” 

He brightens, endearing me to him even more, all at once. “Yes! I don’t have many friends in Gotham yet. This’ll be great — plus, I’ll finally get to meet your mini.” 

My smile widens as I unlock the car, not even caring now if Gary decimates it with his endless gas. As far as I'm concerned, he's earned the right to free farts for life. “Well, hop aboard, then, mate — Dick and Mary both love people, I’m sure they’ll be fine with a guest.” 

Gary smiles, and climbs in the passenger side of the Audi. I take hold of the steering wheel after I follow suit and start up the car, inhaling, and exhaling. 

Before I put the car in gear, I look over at Gary. "By the way... could you... not say anything to Dick about my dad showing up? He worries." 

Gary nods. "Sure, no problem. Mum's the word." 

I thank him, then take a second to send Jason and Jade a quick text. 

_We need to convene about the project. I’ll group call from the work number at 7 tonight and we’ll set something up._

Work number being my Huntress burner phone, which isn’t on my person at present. Within a moment, I get texts from both. 

_Can do._ From Jade. 

_You got it. I’ll expect a call at 7._ From Jason. 

Again, I take a breath. I stifle the effects of the confrontation with Dad, and put my game face on to pick up my family. 

******* 

“Damn, damn, damn —” 

It’s 7:07. I’m late to call Jason and Jade. I misplaced my personal cell, odds are it’s out in the car, but who knows, so I can’t send a text to let them know I’m running behind. I have no idea where Dick got himself off to (and his positioning is _important_ when it comes to this), and I only just got Mary out of the bath. She’s dripping and freshly wrapped in a towel, in need of diapering and pajamas — how did time get away from me so quickly? This double life is a delicate operation — I _can’t_ afford to be sloppy like this. Goddamn Mom Brain — or Dad's wonted impromptu visit _still_ has me so subcutaneously rattled that all concepts of the passage of time have eluded me. Maybe it's a combo of the two. 

“Mom!” I call, coming down the steps with towel-swaddled Mary bouncing on my hip, a diaper and baby lotion in one hand, her sleeper in the other. “Mom, can you finish getting Mary ready for bed for me? I have a business call I needed to make for Jack almost ten minutes ago that I totally forgot about. I’ll come put her to bed once I’m through.” 

“Of course, Artemis,” Mom says, happily taking Mary as I extend her in a damp, babbling, joyful bundle. “Is everything all right?” 

“Everything’s fine, just working on a translation for a literally billion dollar project,” I say, not entirely a lie, considering that’s partly what I’ve been working on over the past week. “Need to touch base with the guy over in Japan.” 

Mom nods, and with Mary taken care of, I hurry toward the back. I yell a thanks and sorry over my shoulder before I shut the door, then, out of sight, I all but _sprint_ to the Outhouse. The burner phone is there, in its hiding place with the Huntress tools and suit. I’m _so_ late at this point — odds are one of them has called to check in, likely multiple times — 

I halt when I open the Outhouse door, freezing in my tracks on the threshold, drawn all at once up completely short. 

My heart slides into my gut even as my stomach makes a slow decline into the floor. A sweat prickles on my back. Every hair follicle makes its presence known. 

Dick sits in front of the sliding wall, the extra one I’d put in as a place to stash the Huntress gear — it’s open, baring all of my secrets under the acid yellow of the overhead lights. The suit. The mask. The sword. The stocked utility belt. The phone and notepad, which I intended to burn to ash once the job is finished — 

In Dick’s hand is the burner phone. On his lap is the notepad. 

_Oh, no —_

He stares at me, unspeaking, his form unmoving in his chair. 

Thoughts fly into my brain, dictionaries of them tossed into my mind and processed in a blink. I fight for an explanation, for some astronomical way to dismiss everything he’s just found, however ridiculous it’ll sound — 

My heart completes its descent when Dick sighs, then speaks. 

“So… Huntress,” he says, his voice profoundly heavy, overwhelmingly _sad._ “...I think we should probably talk.” 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Somewhat suicidal ideation/thoughts of self-harm
> 
> Man. Hopefully this reads okay. It was challenging and I'm at the point where I can't look at it one more time. It has beta approval (thanks, Libraryman85 and TPC and my long-suffering BFF, y'all are awesome), so I'll just drop it on a wing and a prayer and hope to God it makes the cut.
> 
> This one hurt, not going to lie... and no one comes out of this one smelling like roses. BUT I PROMISE. It will be okay. 
> 
> Happy reading! <3
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> EF

**CHAPTER 9**

_Dick_

A long, long pause, thunderous with unspoken thought, descends over us, my partner and me, the air at once gone thick and cloying. Evening sounds from outside filter through the still open door. 

Artemis’ shoulders sag, and she releases a breath. In this moment, I notice just how _exhausted_ she looks — how frail, drained. My heart only sinks more at the sight. In silence, she turns, and closes the Outhouse door, her motions slow, ponderous. 

Watching her, studying her body language, I wonder if a part of her isn’t relieved that the ruse is up. She extends a hand, pulls the rolling chair away from the desk, and sinks into it. 

“How’d you find out?” she asks, her voice hollow, tired. 

I indicate the burner phone. “It went off — a lot. I was finishing up some work out h-here and I heard it through the w-wall. Went to investigate the sound I was h-h-hearing and…” I shake my head. “Look what I f-found. The code wasn’t hard to hack — you need to up your g-g-game there, Tiger.” 

She glares at me, clearly not amused (honestly, neither am I), then says, “How much do you know?” 

“...Bruce s-s-said there was a new person of interest out there, someone working with Cheshire, who’s t-taken the alias Huntress. The m-m-mission of these two women apparently is to take out Sportsmaster — as in _kill_ him — and other than Jade, the new Huntress is y-you.” 

She presses a hand to her forehead. “Of course Bruce figured me out. I’d be stupid to think he didn’t.” 

“He asked me to c-clinch it.” 

She looks up at me, her eyes hardening. “So you what, agreed and started _spying_ on me?” 

Fervently, I shake my head. “No, Artemis — _no._ I _defended_ you to him — I s-s-said there was no way you’d ever g-g-get up to something like this, and that you’ve n-n-never hidden anything from me b-before — but then your damn burner phone g-g-goes off, and I hear none other than _Jason_ on the other end after I turn up your s-s-s-secret cache of would be m-m-murder weapons and your f-freaking Unabomber manifesto!” 

That was probably among the worst moments of my life, hearing the insistent buzzing coming from an undetermined location as I worked to finish up some Oracle documentation. The third instance of buzzing, and I opted to find its source and by golly, _silence_ it, whatever it was. It occurred to me, too, as I wheeled away from the desk, that Artemis may have left her cell in the Outhouse, and if someone was calling so frequently, it was sure to be important. Best get on it. 

Going fully blind in one eye, and then remaining legally blind in it without corrective lenses following surgery, lent me an unexpected benefit in a more acute auditory sense — my ears compensating for my weakened sight. As such, I swiftly turned up the spot from which the intermittent, persistent buzzing came — behind the back wall. 

I frowned, curious, and probed a bit — immediately discovering there was another furtive, sliding panel set into the wall. One that I _knew_ wasn’t there when we first refurbished the Outhouse to suit our needs. 

The first worm of disquiet shifted in my gut. 

Well, I figured, Artemis possibly extended her weapons stash and needed another storage case, and maybe her team communicator — since neglected — was the source of the buzzing. It’s not unusual for the team to recruit retired members or members on leave if they find themselves shorthanded. I slid the panel containing the code box up, and did a quick hack with my holographic computer to garner the required digits to open up the case. 

My heart sank when it revealed the suit I recognized as the Huntress costume from the video Bruce showed me — along with a whole plethora of deadly weaponry (not disabling weaponry, _deadly_ weaponry), including Paula’s sword. 

The stubborn thought that Artemis was merely lending out these goods to a hired gun maintained itself in my brain, however, and equally the hope that, if she were donning the Huntress alias under wraps, it was specifically to abet Jade in her own possibly patricidal mission. Not an admirable endeavor, necessarily, and one that carried with it a level of punishable criminality in the eyes of the greater law, but hardly murder in and of itself. 

Now fixing to prove my theories to my damn self, I sifted through the paraphernalia in the case, and turned up a notepad. 

Right then, the buzzing about jarred me out of my skin. I searched, and found its source — a burner phone. 

My guts turning, I answered the call without speaking, holding the phone to my ear. 

After a pause, I heard none other than my own brother’s voice. 

“Huntress?” 

My heart _fell._ I still didn’t speak. Couldn’t. 

“Yo. Huntress,” Jason continued. “Artemisss… Okay, well, if you haven’t called like you were _supposed_ to and you’re answering but not talking, I’m guessing you’re somewhere you can’t speak. Look — I did some discovery on Sportsmaster after your text earlier, and get this. He’s in Gotham City — literally like five minutes from me — and about to do a big level hit for Falcone later. It’s a golden opportunity not only to stick it to Carmine, but to just fucking _axe_ Sportsmaster for once and for all. You’d better have your sword sharpened, because we’re gonna end this fucker _tonight._ Call me ASAP, okay? We need to get on this, this sort of thing only comes around every so often.” 

_Click._

The phone lowered to my lap, and I stared at it for one long, sick moment. 

Then, numbly, I lifted the notepad, and, my fingers unfeeling, I thumbed through it. 

_Oh, Christ,_ I thought, leafing through the pages with a greater sense of urgency as I skimmed her _extremely_ damning notes, _Arty, what the hell are you doing…_

I finally closed it, and just sat, not moving, trying to _process_ everything I’d just found. 

Right then, Artemis came in, and halted when she saw me, sitting in front of the condemning evidence of her double life. 

I knew just by looking at her in the first instant that, and although I hate to think of it this way, she was guilty. 

And here we are now. 

“Artemis…” I murmur, gazing pleadingly at her, enunciating carefully to avoid stuttering in my stress. “Talk to me. What are you _doing,_ here? Why are you going to this place, tracking down your father like this? You’re really planning on _killing_ him?” 

“Let me ask you again — how much do you know?” Artemis queries, her voice carrying on it a tone of overwhelming fatigue. 

“...You’re not even d-d-denying it,” I say heavily, no longer bothering with fastidious pronunciation. 

“No,” she says with a sigh. “I’m not. But I need you to tell me something before we even touch that subject — how much do you know?” 

“If you think I d-d-don’t know your dad is the one who partly l-landed me in this chair and that he s-s-s-sent Harley Quinn after you to cut your throat and p-p-perform a fucking C-section to steal Mary, you’re completely wrong,” I say. “Bruce told me everything. I’m _aware_ of all that h-h-happened —” 

“ _Are_ you aware of everything that happened? Can you sit there and tell me you actually _know_ everything my father’s done since last year and question me on that storage case with a straight face? Because what you just said wasn’t even the _half_ of it —” 

“I’m not q-q-questioning you,” I insist. “Artemis, I _get_ it — and I’ll allow there are th-things I might not be aware of, here. B-b-but — just —” I gesture imploringly. “Why didn’t you _t-tell_ me? Why didn’t you _come_ to me w-with all this? I could have h-h-helped you —” 

She snorts, crossing her arms and shaking her head. “Helped me, what — _don’t_ pretend that ‘helping me’ wouldn’t have involved trying to talk me out of it. You can’t sit there and act like you wouldn’t make every effort to help me _see the light_ and back away from the ledge — and _that_ would be your idea of ‘helping me.’” 

“Artemis, I could’ve helped you f-f-find your father, and do the right thing, lock him up for _g-g-good_ this time —” 

“Oh, Dick, just what the _hell_ is the right thing, here?” she snaps, cutting me off. “Don’t you _dare_ go off on _me_ about the right thing when you have _no idea_ what all my father’s done since last July — you think it ended at your apartment with your attack? Well, news flash, it _didn’t_. And he was supposed to be in _Belle Reve_ at that time — so you _can’t_ sit there and tell me the right thing is to lock him up for good.” Her voice rises. “There _is_ no locking him up — he’s like a cockroach or bacteria, he’s impervious to everything but getting fucking _stomped_ and he’s _everywhere,_ all the time!” She waves her arms, emphatically, angrily. “If I’m going to protect our daughter, my mother, _you —_ I have no choice, here. Not anymore. He hasn’t _given_ me one. So honestly, _fuck_ the almighty right thing!” She heaves a sigh. “And look, Dick… I _can’t_ dwell on how it makes me feel to know you’re angry with me, here —” 

I feel like crying. The ache for her in my heart is so pronounced it renders its beats sluggish and leaden. Slowly, I shake my head. 

“Artemis, I’m not angry,” I murmur. 

She stares at me, then shakes her own head. “What are you, then?” 

“I’m… _sorry,”_ I say honestly. “It _hurts_ me that you are where you are, that this is what you feel you need to do. I’m _sorry_ that you feel you don’t have any other choice but to cross the ultimate line. It _hurts.”_ I pause, thinking. “And on that n-note… I’m not going to l-lie, I can’t say I’m not _disappointed_ this is the p-p-path you’re apparently opting for, but I’m _not_ angry. Whatever anger I might feel…” I trail off a moment, and fight tears, overcome at once by a rush of self-hatred. I gesture. “It’s at _myself,_ Artemis. I wasn’t there for you in a time you _clearly_ n-needed me. If I’d just _been_ there — I could've kept s-so much from happening, I could've protected you... and maybe you wouldn’t find yourself _here,_ feeling such a n-need to go commit premeditated m-murder, and on your own _father —”_

“Oh, get off your high horse,” she snaps, thrusting a hand. “This is something that needs to be done _regardless_ of whether you’d been there or not and it should’ve been done a _long_ time ago — stop acting so self-important. I don't _need_ your protection. And Sportsmaster didn’t begin with you and he didn’t end with you — you think you’re the _first_ — and _only —_ of Crusher’s victims?” 

This gets me. 

“I am _not_ a v-v-victim,” I hiss. 

She lets go a sigh, then passes a hand over her face. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Just — Dick, come on. I know you’re a god-tier cinnamon roll and a precious angel and everything, but you don’t feel even _somewhat_ vengeful over what Crock did to you?” 

I gape at her. “...You really think I don’t feel vengeful? What makes you think I _don’t?_ ” I shake my head in disbelief. “For Christ’s s-s-sake, I wake up missing more than h-h-half a year and find out right after I w-w-wake up that I can’t walk or see or t-t-talk or even just take a _shit_ n-naturally — I wear Depends, for crying out loud! I live with a glorified _babysitter_ at the age of t-t-twenty-three!” My own voice is rising now, the beast of all the disguised, suppressed anger that I’ve spurred and directed into patience and productivity at once rearing its furious, toothy head. “I never even saw our b-b-baby born, and I m-m-missed so much t-time with her… I wasn’t there f-f-for you… and I can’t even — I can’t even _l-l-love_ you, or t-t-touch you, Artemis, as you damn well know — so yeah, I’d say I’ve got _plenty_ to feel vengeful about, here! But you don’t see _me_ chasing Sportsmaster down to _murder_ him! And God, it’s not like I’m _dead!”_

Artemis leaps out of her chair, and thrusts an arm. “Damn it, Dick, you _will_ be if Crock is allowed to keep converting oxygen into carbon dioxide! At this point you’re unfinished business to him — not to mention the food he wants to _play_ with before he eats it!” 

“Well, I’ve said it b-b-before and I’ll s-say it again — _bring it,_ asshole. He can t-try —” 

“Are you even aware that my dad almost killed me _and_ my mom last year?” Artemis hisses, cutting me off. “I don’t even want to _think_ about what he had planned for Mary!” 

My gut twists. I shake my head. “What are you t-t-talking about —” 

She laughs bitterly. “See? Bruce _didn’t_ tell you everything. Shocking! But _yes_ , Dick — he showed up in our house last year when Mary was only a few days old, knocked my mom out, and when I came inside he was just standing in our goddamn living room, holding Mary with my mom unconscious on the floor behind him.” 

My heart sinks even as a familiar sick feeling turns in my stomach. “Did he h-hurt you —” 

“Why, yes, Dick — as a matter of fact, he _did_ hurt me. Mary and Mom were thankfully okay for the whole ordeal, but what do you really _think_ he intended for us from the second he decided he was going to make an appearance? You think he was just there to meet his granddaughter and say congratulations and drop off flowers and balloons? If Brucely hadn’t decided to grow a random mean streak and Clark hadn’t shown up, _none_ of us would be here. That’s not even getting into that waste of space trying to fuck with you while you were still in the hospital, or the fact that he showed up just this afternoon at my office, trying to threaten me — _and you!_ So you mark my words here and now — for as long as that fucker is breathing, you’re never safe! _Mary_ is never safe! My mother is never safe! This goes on down the line — Lian, our pets — you know he even threatened to hurt _Peach_ when he showed up here last year?” 

I gesticulate frantically, barely breathing now, the tears only just held at bay as I attempt to assimilate everything she’s just told me. “Why in the hell did you never _t-t-tell_ me any of this, Artemis?” 

“Because you were dealing with enough already!” she snaps. “You didn’t need to be worrying about your personal safety and that of our family on top of it —” 

“Well, you didn’t need to bother t-t-tip-toeing around the subject — because I am _not_ afraid of your father,” I state, livid. “He wants to start some sh-shit, I’ll gladly f-f-finish it.” 

Artemis huffs, and shakes her head. “Are you serious?” 

“Yes, I’m serious.” 

She draws the chair back to her, and sits heavily in it. Resting an elbow on her knee, she leans her forehead into her hand. “Dick. _Please_ don’t be stupid.” 

Heat rises in my chest. “How am I being st-stupid?” 

“You really think you can stand up to my father right now?” she asks plainly. 

This throws my heart into the next gear and I feel the blaze in my cheeks. “ _Yes,_ Artemis. I can h-hold my own —” 

“Oh, Dick, _come on —_ you know as well as I do that my dad’s not only capable enough to be in with the League of Shadows, but that he fights _dirty_ when he feels like it —” 

“Well, _let_ him!” I shout. “I can t-t-take whatever he wants to d-dish at this point — you really think I can’t?” 

Artemis is silent, every muscle in her body visibly drawn up tense. 

“ _Do_ you?” I ask again. 

After a long moment, she at last expels a loud breath. “I don’t want to test that theory. That’s what I think.” 

“What do you _think_ of me, Artemis?” I ask, gesturing. “Do you really think I’m some p-poor, helpless s-s-sob story? You think I can’t d-d-defend myself or others? What do you think I’ve been _doing_ since I g-g-got home? I haven’t b-b-been lying in the f-fetal position in a closet crying, that’s for d-d-d-damn sure!” My voice goes harsh and reedy as it lifts to the next decibel. “Your dad _didn’t_ beat me!” 

“You’re right — he hasn’t beaten you,” she says, her voice now a low, husky growl, “but for as long as he’s breathing, he’ll _change_ that the first second he can. Don’t think he won’t. Or that he _can’t.”_

The angry beast in me leaps up full throttle at this, and if I could get to my feet, I would. Sweat prickles at my hairline and tingles in my underarms as I thrust both hands in irate motions now. 

“God _damn_ it, Artemis —” I bellow. “What do you _really_ th-th-think of me, now? Do you think I’m not c-c-capable of anything because I lost half my m-m-mobility? Do you think my abilities aren’t _worth_ anything anymore? Would you be t-t-talking to _Wally_ like this if he ever lost his powers and were in my p-p-position? Because somehow, I think not!” 

Her eyes blaze a thunderous gray, and she again leaps from her seat. “Well, if Wally ever lost his powers, I’m sure _you’d_ be the first to send him on some dumb fuck mission that would _land_ him in your position! Just like the mission he died on that _you_ roped him into!” 

I _feel_ the blood fall from my face. “I didn’t r-rope him into _anything._ He was there because he ch-chose to be! And _you_ didn’t exactly stop him from running off to go die, last I checked — he was standing _right by you!_ Where were _you?”_

Her own face blanches even as her eyes go hotter and darker. “You said it yourself — he _made_ his choice. I couldn’t have stopped him even if I tried — just like you can’t stop me in _my_ choice, Dick. And ending my father _is_ my choice — so don’t even try.” 

As she spins on her heel to leave, I call after her. 

“Wally knew you had this in you, didn’t he? This is wh-why he brought up leaving the life behind when he did! This is why he didn’t want you getting b-back into it! It’s why he was the only one so against you rejoining the t-t-team even when the rest of us _begged_ you to come back — he _knew_ you were capable of this!” 

She freezes, stopping dead in her tracks. Then, she faces me, moving slowly, her face drained of all color, her eyes two teeming thunderstorms. Her shoulders square. Her arms flex. She approaches my chair, and for a moment as she stands, hovering, I think she might hit me. 

She doesn’t. She leans down, her face inches from mine. 

“Fuck you,” she spits. 

Then, like that, she moves to the door, her steps quick and purposeful. 

My heart and guts fall as I watch her, overtaken immediately under a tsunami of regret and self-condemnation. 

“Artemis —” 

The door slams. 

I stare at its surface, the silence around me pulsing in the wake of the sound. 

Then, I lapse into tears. 

_God damn it — god_ damn _it — why did I say that to her — why did I even bring Wally up — why did I say_ anything _of what I said —_

Bawling, beside myself, I bury my face in my hands. 

I pull my phone out of my pocket, drag a hand across my streaming eyes, and dial Artemis. She doesn’t answer. I hammer a text into the window, a bunch of apologies and promises that I didn’t mean a word of what I said, for what good they won’t do. What was said was said — and I can’t take any of those words back. And words like that — leave a mark. 

I’m not even thinking about anything Artemis said to me at this point — for as much as her words stung and stepped on a dragon with a tail a mile long, I know on all levels that her words came out of fear for me, our daughter, our loved ones. Even this murderous quest she’s on feels _right_ to her after everything that boogeyman that is her father has put her — _us —_ through. And who the hell am I to sit and preach to her over her feeling some bloodlust for the man who’s done nothing but make her life a living hell since the day she was born? She’s in a _corner,_ now — and she’s found support in that corner in her sister and my brother. All she got from me — her partner, who hitherto loved her supposedly unconditionally — was condescension, judgment, and hurtful words. I should have extended a hand, _drawn_ her from that corner — 

But I just chased her out the door. Every horrible thing I said to her sent her away. Deeper into that corner. 

I don’t want to entertain the possibility that she won’t be back, that she’ll draw the line at the terrible things I just said, that she’ll send me packing back to Bruce. 

The tears come double time when I think on him, and I pound another text into my phone, this one sent Bruce’s way now. 

_You are a FUCKING ASSHOLE._

_Bruce_ put me in this position. The items behind the wall would have meant little to me, I wouldn’t have answered the burner phone, I wouldn’t have snooped through the notepad — _if he hadn’t put me up to this in the first place._

Of course, Bruce wasn’t the one who pulled the strings behind me taking every low blow and cock shot I could land as Artemis and I fought — truly fought — for the first time in all the years we’ve known each other, either. Bruce didn’t play ventriloquist as I brought Wally — an old agony that Artemis and I share — into the argument, an argument our late loved one had _nothing_ to do with, and Bruce didn’t move my mouth as it assigned blame where it didn’t belong, where it wasn’t even _felt_ or _believed_ to belong. What happened to Wally wasn’t Artemis’ fault. And Wally didn’t fear that Artemis inherited her father’s traits. Bruce didn’t poke those bears, wake those giants. That was all me, exploding outward, foaming at the mouth with spumes of rabid words I didn’t mean, spurred to hitting as hard as I could below the belt because Artemis hit a sore spot and because the broader implications of everything she’s doing and kept hidden behind the wall to my back _terrifies_ me for her. 

To think that Bruce tasked me with making the Huntress tie because I wasn’t obligated legally to turn Artemis in — and because he trusted me to be calm when I confronted her on it. He trusted me to resolve it with her. He _believed_ that I could. 

I just failed that task _abysmally._

I dig my fists into my forehead, wondering if I’ve just destroyed all the things that have kept me breathing since I woke up in Mercy in February. 

What have I done — what have I _managed_ to do in so _short_ a period of time — 

I’m wrong. I’m so wrong. I’m so painfully, egregiously wrong. Past the point of apologies wrong. Past the point of being able to make it right wrong. 

How will I ever fix this — 

_You can’t ever fix this. It’s like your spine. Unfixable._

I start when the door opens, and sag when, expecting Artemis, I see Jason standing there instead — arguably the _last_ person I want to lay eyes on in this moment. 

His eyes shift from me, to the open storage case, to the items on my lap. His lips thin. 

“Well, shit,” he says. 

_Keep it together, Boy Moron,_ I remonstrate myself. _Don’t have more words._

“If you’re l-l-looking for Artemis,” I sigh wetly, “she t-t-took off.” 

Jason’s expression doesn’t change. “She happen to say where she was heading?” 

I shake my head. 

“You two have words?” 

I nod. 

“Damn.” Jason rubs at the back of his neck. “You okay, man?” 

I don’t respond. I clench my jaw. 

“...I’ll take that as a no,” he says. “You need to talk or anything?” 

I thrust a hand. “Not to _y-you.”_

He lifts a brow. “When did _I_ piss in your Cheerios?” 

“Jesus Ch-christ, is that a serious question?” I hiss, shucking restraints and cares. 

He grunts a bit, and pulls out a cigarette. I didn't even know he still smoked. “Mm. Figured out I’ve been on board with Artemis’ covert ops, I take it.” 

I fix a stare on him, feeling my jaw tighten more. “And kept it f-f-from me. And didn’t s-s-seem to bother with what this whole m-m-mess could spell for Artemis in the long-t-t-term. You can play fast-and-loose as much as you’d l-l-like, but if you c-c-could kindly leave my loved ones out of it, I’d be obliged.” I press my hands into the arms of my chair. “You should probably l-l-leave right now.” 

“Well, without getting into some greater and more probing conversation about that, I’ll just say it’s _our_ mission, Big Bird. Just let me try tracking Artemis quick and I promise I’ll get out of your righteously indignant, pissed off hair.” Jason comes inside with his lit cigarette. 

“Jason,” I growl, “I s-s-said leave. Before I d-d-do something I regret.” 

He smirks at me. “What are you gonna do, bro?” 

It might not be a deliberate poke at my mobility — but even if it’s merely a reference to the fact that I would never lift a hand to my brothers, even if it’s teasing me for always making unfailing nice with Jason in spite of his extracurricular activities and all the tensions between him and Bruce, even if it’s him characteristically poking me into a towering temper because he obnoxiously finds my hotheaded side amusing — something about those words sparks a whole new explosion in me, and this one on the nuclear level. All in a blink, I’m completely out of my skull with fury. 

“ _God d-d-damn it, Jason, I said GET THE FUCK OUT —”_ I take Artemis’ burner phone, and hurl it full-throttle straight at Jason’s head. Only his trained reflexes enable him to avoid the impromptu missile. It goes to pieces when it strikes the far wall. The notepad follows, harmlessly striking Jason’s chest. He takes a step back, all goading and levity gone at once from his face. “You f-f-fucking asshole — _get out —”_

He lifts his hands. “Dickiebird, calm down —” 

I thrust the chair in his direction. “ _Get. Out —”_

“Okay,” he says, making his way to the door, “okay. I’m going.” 

I shake visibly, dragging in one ragged breath after another, until Jason drifts outside, and shuts the door. 

If I was upset before that exchange, I’m distraught now. No chance of getting traught any time in the near _or_ distant future. 

I sob, fisting my hands, pressing them into my forehead. 

Between Artemis’ words and Jason’s (okay, possibly unintentional) slight, my mind descends so rapidly into an abyssal rabbit hole of dark, bleak thoughts that there is no hope of stopping its swift, downward slide. 

I know that unless Crock shows up here and I demonstrably put my money where my mouth is, I can discredit neither Artemis’ nor Jason’s doubts regarding my bodily capabilities. I don’t want to consider myself defenseless — and the assumption that I could halt some standard issue Shady Dude on the subway from robbing me by use of only my upper body is a fair one — but against someone like Sportsmaster? A Shadow, a lethal assassin, a respectable, formidable foe? 

Batman himself would probably treat a brawl with Crock as anything but a promenade under the cherry trees, even if he could take him and only just break a sweat. I was hard-put at my prime to take down Crusher — even if I knocked his teeth out and chucked him in Belle Reve at the end of the day, I had to redline it the whole way through that fight, and I didn’t come away unscathed. If Crock ever decides to quit this twisted, protracted screwing with us (as Artemis said, playing with his food before he eats it), I don’t even want to consider what I might end up looking like before he decided his job was done. The horror of Oberyn comes to mind. 

To be an effective fighter, you have to know your limits first, and fight _smart._ And the sad, awful fact is — I have a _lot_ more limits now than I did when I last encountered Lawrence Crock. And they’re not especially inspiring in a hypothetical combat scenario with Crusher and his flail. Maybe, _maybe_ I could emerge victorious, if I had smarts and luck on my side — but Artemis is right in not wanting to test that theory. 

I _hate_ Crock, I think, my knuckles straining fit to break, _hate_ him — God help me, if I only could, I’d land him in solitary until Judgment Day — 

Even if the Joker fired the gun, _Crock_ hired him. He was the mastermind behind putting me here — not even Luthor can lay claim to that. Sportsmaster landed me in this position, Artemis in hers — 

And here I find myself. Emasculated. Stripped. Sedentary. Can I protect my daughter if Crock ever shows his face here? I don’t know with any confidence that I can, even if I wish to pretend I could, even if I _want_ to. I’m a loving father, I know, one who can still _teach_ Mary plenty — but can I effectively protect her? Can I guard Paula, our pets? Can I look out for Artemis, have her back, even as she does the same for me? 

_Maybe… maybe I_ have _been beaten — maybe he_ did _beat me — did he…?_

I’m not even capable of any active ops, relegated instead to hanging out behind a desk, playing some parody of mission control (something which by all arguments can be accomplished on the field.) Let’s just face it — I’m a glorified librarian now, not even worth being referred to as something of an air traffic controller. Everything I do, Tim or Barbara could do just as easily, and _without_ my help. I sob bitterly, thoughts of the Oracle work which had once been so validating now playing themselves out like a pitiful farce. Doubtless, everyone got together to give me something to do, something to make me feel _useful,_ keep me busy. _Poor little Dickie, he must be feeling so sad after all his injuries, let’s give him something to make him think he’s still got it, make him feel all special…_

And meanwhile, I’ve been nothing but a particularly cumbersome burden on everyone around me — most of all, on Artemis. A constant, heavy yoke that rests on her shoulders, bolstered and carried deadweight across the landscape of our arduous days. Depending on her, relying on her, leaning on her, _needing_ her — and not just for physical things. It’s gone beyond requiring the occasional assist with certain tasks that, from time to time, become daunting. Beyond ensuring I’m bodily cared for and kept secure and in good health — never mind Sylvia’s own role in this side of the equation. 

I’ve needed Artemis for her reaching love and patience. I’ve needed her understanding, her vast oceans of support. Her loyalty, her aboveboard compassion and care. 

And what did I do when she needed me? I vanished — and then I sent her away. 

_I sent her away._

Every awful thing I said to her drove a rift between us that, with each moment that passes, widens into a gulf — and I don’t know if she’ll ever determine that gulf traversable. Maybe she shouldn’t. I’ve held her back from every thinkable thing. From having a life — a _real_ life, that she _deserves,_ and if she had, maybe she wouldn’t feel so _cornered_ — from recognizing and realizing her potential, from exploring all the possibilities open to her, from caring for and nurturing herself. She’s been so focused on _me_ that she’s overlooked _herself._ She made it clear that her furtive mission doesn’t revolve solely around me, but I’m a big enough player in her motivations that I can’t help but feel responsible for the ugly choice she feels she has no option other than to make — and even just regarding basic, daily things, she’s had to work her _whole life_ around my routine. She’s done so tirelessly, without complaint. 

And what did _I_ do? I hurt her. _I hurt her._ I all but packed her bags and put her on a train, waving to her as it roared off, past the far side of the gulf between us. I sent her straight into the bosom of all the things from which I want so badly to safeguard her — right to the precipice I wish so much to talk her back from. All because I was angry and lashing out, venting all the mushrooming impotence and frustration I’ve buried and disguised, letting the blistering steam off outward. Burning Artemis in the process. Sending her away in a blaze of entirely justified rage and hurt. 

And where does all of this leave me — what does my side of the gulf hold, with her gone, possibly for good after my thoughtless, callous words? 

What will I _do_ without her, now I’ve come to depend on her so? What _is_ there? Friends? Family? Work? Ha. I’m a _problem_ for friends and family, something to _deal with,_ something to try fixing. And work — work is a joke. What work? Rolling around on a mat, punching buttons and telling comrades useless, redundant shit they already know? 

_You have Mary, you’ll always have Mary —_

I choke on tears. Mary — and what kind of father _am_ I to her? What am I to my daughter, other than someone who’ll undoubtedly end up needing _her_ care on top of her mother’s (if her mother will even accept me after this) before I’ve even hit forty years old? If I _live_ to forty — Thompkins said not to expect much longevity past thirty — 

Mary deserves a better father figure than that — someone better than a perpetual invalid who’ll probably eat it before she even hits the third grade — _Jason_ would be a better father to her — she already chose him over me one time before — 

Jason. The brother I just sent out the door in a volley of projectiles. Another bridge I probably managed to burn to ash in less than thirty seconds. 

I wrecked it with Bruce, too, sending that stupid text — 

I dig my fingers into my hair, a sickening sense of panic and despair pulsing through me in alternating tides, each dragging me under, deeper and deeper, until I can’t breathe or see the surface. I go farther and farther down, funneling into the depths, knowing that the lower I go, the less likely it is that I’ll be able to pull myself up. Already alone, I’ll only become increasingly more so, the deeper I descend into these black, murky, hopeless fathoms. 

I’m not a stranger to this abyss. What I _am_ a stranger to, however, are all the terrible, morbid ideations that rise to my mind as I sink into the void. Sickened, scared, I squeeze my eyes shut against the images my mind conjures. 

I barely have a clue in my head as to what I should do, now I’ve found myself in this place. I’ve _never_ felt so alone, so utterly desolate, so without recourse — never like _this._

Before my mind can stray yet closer to the poisonous thought processes of how much better off everyone around me would be if I were gone, or how little purpose my burdensome life serves the world, or how I deserve to _hurt,_ or how I’m not sure I can carry this pain or right all I’ve managed to upend — I reach for my cell phone, still in my lap. 

The screen blurs through my monsooning tears. I take my glasses off, drag a hand across my eyes, put them back on. With shaking hands, my chest hitching, I dial a number, and hold the phone to my ear. I take a breath, struggling to compose myself enough to speak. 

“Hello?” 

I attempt finding my voice. 

“Dinah?” I say, my voice thick and weak. 

“Dick? Is that you?” 

“Y-yeah.” 

“Are you okay?” Dinah queries gently. “What’s going on?” 

Just like that, as I hear the compassion and genuine, surpassing _concern_ in her voice, the tears burst out of me all over again. 

“Please —” I sob, holding the phone away from my ear, speaking into the microphone, covering my face with my hand and pushing my glasses painfully into the bridge of my nose. “I need help — I don’t know what else to d-d-do —” 

“What’s wrong?” she asks. “Are you hurt?” 

“No, I just…” I hitch. “ _Please_ help. I need — I need to t-t-talk.” 

“Okay. Where are you right now, honey?” she asks. “Are you at home?” 

“Y-yes. I’m in the d-d-detached garage in the b-b-backyard.” 

“Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be right there. You sit tight, okay? I’m on my way. Don’t hang up — I’m staying on the line with you. I’ll lose the signal when I cross through the Zeta, but it’ll only be for a second or two.” 

“Dinah… Don’t t-t-tell anyone you’re coming.” 

“Nothing leaves this call, and nothing leaves that garage.” 

I inhale, cleaving to the sound of her voice, anchoring to it. “Th-thank you.” 

“Any time, sweetheart. Just hang in there. I’m coming.” 

My chest tightens, and I hold to those words. 

_Just hang in there. I’m coming._


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER 10**

_Artemis_

I squeeze my arms around my bent knees, shaking in spite of the seasonal warmth, the slightest breeze enough to pulse through me in a wash of shivers. Emotional shock, as Bruce calls it, the moment when you’re so distraught you stop _feeling_ and your body responds in a manner similar to shock, all cold chills and sweats and numbness and an odd sense of dissociation. 

I stare out at the water, still processing everything, still lost in the tossing seas of my storming thoughts. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here — it feels like an eternity and a breath all at the same time. I haven’t moved from this spot since I glided unfeeling to it, planting my seat in a patch of grass by the jogging trail that Dick and I frequent, this little perch at the cusp of an incline that descends to the riverside and boardwalk below. I haven’t responded to Jason. I haven’t touched base with Jade. My world has all at once funneled down into everything that transpired when I entered the Outhouse, everything else ceasing to matter — Jade, Jason, Carmine, my father. _None_ of it matters right now. 

_Jade and I will deal with the small thing,_ Jason’s text to my personal cell read a little while ago. _Get your house in order and we’ll regroup re: the big thing. And listen. I know it’s bad now, but I promise, this too shall pass, as the saying goes. Let me know if you need anything._

It’s odd that my father enters my mind at the moment with no underlying sense of urgency — merely with feelings of anger, reproach and bitterness, none of which I’m keen on resolving right this red hot second. Instead, I sit, lay my forehead on my knees, and release the tears that have pressed at my eyes and throat since I left the Outhouse. 

I won’t move from this spot. I _can’t_ move from this spot. I huddle around my knees, thinking with a hateful, humorless mirth on how ludicrous this is, the Great Tigress and Mighty Huntress reduced to weeping in an upright pose like a child, shunted through time and space into the body of a miserable teenager. 

There’s so much I have to do just now — an opportunity to be done with the mission I struck out on last year just fell gift wrapped into my lap, as though chucked there by some kindly god. _The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things — and here is your conversation piece, a perfect chance to remove your father from this already overwhelming equation, use it wisely and you’re so very welcome._

And here I am. Weeping. Ha! 

But the thing is, when Dick shouted after me, all those parasitic worms of doubt that already ate their way through the whole of my body at last devoured the entirety of not only my essence, but my understanding, as well. 

_Wally knew you had this in you —_

It’s now I graduate from sniffling to full-blown sobbing, hugging my knees tighter and pressing my forehead to them. Did Wally think that of me, did he worry for me regarding my shadow self, did he fail to trust me so, did he _fear_ me? Was that, in fact, why he was so opposed to my rejoining the team, so endlessly concerned and driven to tearing his hair out at the very thought of me returning to the life? Did it truly have little to do with wanting a peaceful existence away from the hell of a hero’s calling, and much to do with terror over what evil lay sleeping within me in the strains of my father’s DNA? 

It hurts — _hurts so badly —_ to consider that Wally might have surreptitiously kept me in a sideways glance, that he may have suspected me capable of bloodshed. He never vocalized anything of the sort, but was his prayer that I remain in retirement not because he wanted to pursue our life together, our _normal,_ peaceable life together — but because he was _afraid?_ And was he afraid _of_ me or afraid _for_ me? 

And if this mission, this one to end that same father, renders all of those fears real… where does that leave Dick? When I get past the anger and hurt his words caused me, the instinct to leap to my own defense, to justify myself — the fact is that he _trusted_ me, he _believed_ in me… only to discover I’ve lied to him, and have been on a path to patricide. 

All justifications of sending my father to the executioner’s block shoved aside, I betrayed my partner. I demolished the trust Dick had in me, the same faith that breathed life into a heart that _ached_ for such things in my chest. Maybe I _should_ have just leveled with him — sure, he’d have tried stopping me, he’d have tried reasoning with me, he’d have tried turning up alternate routes for me — but at least he’d know that I trusted _him_ enough and honored his own trust in me to be honest with him, always. 

I suddenly don’t care about his hurtful words, the anger and sting dissolving into a sickened sense of self-loathing. Wally could have believed that of me, and Dick could believe that of me now, and of course I want to fight them on it and insist otherwise — but are they wrong? 

Because regardless of how you slice it, I’ve been working toward killing my father. _Killing my father._ I have every intention of slicing the head from his shoulders with my mother’s sword. Spitting on his corpse. Kicking his body off a cliff. And that fantasy plays itself out not with guilt or fear, but with a deep, deep sense of relief and reaching satisfaction. The fact that I still carry the weight of Melko — an act of justifiable homicide enacted in self-defense — even now bears no fruit in this decaying garden. I’m turning into everything I was so afraid of becoming, a little copy of the father that I already resemble. Metamorphosing into all that my mother fought so hard to protect me from, to steer me away from. Twisting into something that Dick never believed I was, into something that Wally might very well have feared, something he fought to shelter me against. 

What would M’gann think if she saw my thoughts — Zatanna — 

To send my father to the hereafter (surely Hell in his case, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth) might be considered defensible by many. Overdue by even more. An act of service to the world, a purging of a long-wrought pestilence that was a thorn in the sides of so many, superhero and villain alike. It would certainly safeguard my own family, ensure that my daughter, partner, mother, pets, sister, niece, brother-in-law — and on and on — are safe, which is, in the end, my greatest motivator. I want nothing more than to be absolutely sure that Crock will never trouble us again. 

Ending an enormous risk to public safety if I were to go through with my mission aside, I know that just on a personal level it seems to be my only recourse. Crock’s next step regarding Dick is, unquestionably, to finish his outstanding business — and _kill_ him. And I don’t doubt that my dad would then turn his attention to Mary. Who knows what he would decide to do — kidnap her, raise her as a weapon against me and mine, something like what the Joker and Harley had planned for her. But that route has the potential to bring real trouble for Sportsmaster, and that aside, life instills hope. My father is far from stupid, and whether I like to admit it or not, he _knows_ me as his adversary. He knows that I would never give up on my child, and that my hope for Mary would overpower the pain and despair instilled by what my father attempted to make of her. 

So I have no reason to believe that my dad wouldn’t kill my daughter when he finished with my partner. Then my mother. My pets. My niece. 

I don’t know if he would kill me. Honestly, I think he wouldn’t. He’d sadistically allow me to live with that grief forever; in fact, likely _keeping_ me alive and disabling my own death to be _sure_ I’d suffer for defying him. 

Then, he’d skip off into the sunset, protected legally by one of the most powerful men in the world and universe, and slippery enough to slide out of even the most barricaded cells. There’s not a prison on this earth or in the farthest reaches of the galaxies beyond the Milky Way that could hold my father, and he’s proven as such on countless occasions. 

Yeah. On so many levels, my mission makes sense. Perfect sense. Irrefutable sense. 

But when I’ve finished my father, when I’ve risen and wiped the blood from my sword, when I’ve punted his head like a grotesque soccer ball off a cliff into Davy Jones’ Locker below — 

Will it end there? Or will it gain traction, snowball into more, one body building on another, until the mound is so huge there will be no stopping its downhill slide? 

_Killing gets easier the more you do it, Baby Girl,_ I hear my father growl, words he spoke to me long ago when I was a child, _and you just need to get used to it. After a while, you won’t feel a thing._

I hug myself tighter. One thing my father was not, was habitually _wrong._ Anything he spoke, he was generally pretty damn right about, even if those truths he spoke were only valid in roundabout ways. But from the remonstrance that I had to work for my daily bread and that no one would hand it to me, to the same faux reassurance that killing got easier the more one performed that dark, diabolical deed — both were a hundred percent on base. He was right that I would have to work to earn my keep and that no one would just fork things over to me (even the scholarships that afforded my impressive education had to be earned — Bruce wasn’t generous with me on a lark, and I had to work hard to keep them), and I know he was right that killing would stop bringing with it the agony of guilt and stab of regret. Over time, one becomes dead to it, numb to it, distanced from it. I wonder if Dad ever struggled with guilt in his early years — if he ever felt the nauseating, twisting punches of compunction when he took his first lives. 

Look at him now. A pitiless, remorseless killing machine, one deadly efficient and terrifyingly binary, utterly unfeeling regarding his victims. The only emotion he experiences now is a sick glee, a sort of perverted sense of justice. I’m sure he felt fully in the right as he bashed Dick’s head in, knocking the teeth from his skull much like Nightwing had his months before. 

If I do this, will I only come to be more and more like Lawrence Crock? Would it be guilt over Melko, remorse but justification, too, in Sportsmaster, and then… nothing in the next ne’er-do-well I determine to be a threat or worthy of being chucked into that next place? Until I’ve accumulated an inspiring kill count, only deriving a macabre _joy_ in axing my victims by then? 

I shake, the chills in my body founting from my middle, feeding the tears I cry. 

How much of myself have I lost already? How much of Artemis Crock has gone by the wayside, replaced by a dark mask and cowl, the marks of the clawed prints on her chest the tattoos of her devolved self? 

This downward spiral goes beyond the monolithic issues brought about by mentions of my father’s murderous gene pool. Even side bonds attach themselves to the strand of connected evils, clinching them in an unbreakable line. My possibly bloody, dangerous nature notwithstanding, I said so much to Dick that I didn’t mean. So much that unraveled everything he’d worked so hard to build up. So much that I didn’t even _believe._

It’s not my thought that Dick would fail to defend himself if my father showed up tomorrow. And while my dad isn’t the remarkable brain that any member of the Batfam is, he’s _wily._ He’s _cunning._ Even my partner’s best-laid plans might come apart if my father were able to catch him unawares. Dick would not go quietly, he would _fight_ my father tooth and nail and make Sportsmaster work and pay for it — but as I said. As to who would emerge victorious from that hypothetical brawl, it’s a theory I don’t want to test, not with things being what they are. 

I never meant that Dick was incapable. I never meant he was weak. 

But how I said it — it was all deliberately worded to _drive home._ To _scare._ To _hurt._

And whether Dick wants to admit it or not, he’s vulnerable right now. Not just physically — _emotionally,_ too. Emotionally infinitely more so. And I hit him straight in the balls with everything I said — unhindered and with full intention of doing so. 

And then what I said to him about Wally — what he said to me — both of us ripping that wound open, throwing our loved one in each other’s faces — 

My fists ball up. I _was_ right there, by Wally, just like Dick said. And I didn’t even see him before he rounded the corner in his customary red and yellow blur. I didn’t piece together that he’d rush to save the world, not in time to at least say goodbye to him before he could speed off. Nor in time to convince him that Bart and Barry had it covered, and that he could sit back and watch the show with us in relative safety. 

If I had just pieced it all together in time… 

The one thing I really, truly wanted to, and _still_ want to, punch Dick straight in the head for is that. Everything else I can take the blame for, can shoulder wholly, can overlook. But for saying _that._ For questioning why I didn’t stop Wally. That’s a hookworm that’s lived in my heart since that night, draining my lifeblood with every time I think on it, every nightmare that terrorizes my not-sleep. I would’ve at _least_ hugged and kissed him goodbye before he ran off — made a case for him to stay if I had only known — 

Even if it gouges, Dick wasn’t wrong to bring up my murderous intents. But this, saying that about Wally — not only is it so unlike the Dick Grayson I know to do so, but it hits a spot so sore I don’t know if it’ll _ever_ recover. 

I’ve never wanted to actively _hurt_ Dick, not once, not ever. I’ve never even been properly angry with him. He annoyed me when we were younger, sure, in those days at GA before I got to know him, but he never _angered_ me. 

But dear God, I want to lash out at him now — 

Or at least — I do until a startling recollection hits me with the force of a barreling Mac truck, knocking me flat and taking the wind and heat right out of me. 

Years ago, I was in the grotto, looking up at Wally’s hologram, some days after his service. I’d kept it together until then, controlling tears and outbursts of emotion by some miracle, accepting well wishes from guests and chatting quietly with them. I cried during the eulogy, the songs, the photo reel; however, the tears were conservative, restrained. But alone in the grotto, looking up at his facsimile, all of those feelings I’d kept at bay rushed me in a wave, crashing over me like a tsunami. I went hard to my knees, bawling, screaming. I raised my voice to a barking report, cursing him, cursing the world, cursing the Reach, cursing God, cursing myself, cursing anyone who had anything or nothing to do with what happened. 

I didn’t realize I wasn’t alone, well into that undignified, cathartic display — Dick had come along at some point that I hadn’t noticed. He came rushing to me without a moment’s hesitation, dropping the flowers he carried like they were suddenly lit ablaze, and caught my arms, speaking words I didn’t hear. I rose in something like panic, then thrashed and shouted at him — _He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone, Dick, he’s gone —_ and pounded my fists against Dick’s front. He wordlessly let me slam my fists into his chest with every inch of strength I possessed, not stopping me, not moving away. When I tapered off in striking him and screaming, I just fell into tears, and sank into him, both of us stooping down by Wally’s image, Dick’s arms wrapped tight around me, mine around him, both of us sobbing our heartache into one another’s embrace. 

The words he spoke to me murmur into my anamnesis now, conjuring up a whole different picture than what he said to me just a little while ago. 

_It’s not your fault, Artemis. You can’t blame yourself for what happened. You couldn’t have stopped him if you’d tried, and even if you had, you couldn’t have known what would happen —_

_Dick, at least I could have said goodbye —_

_I know. But he didn’t know what would happen, either, or he’d have said goodbye first. Neither of you knew. So listen to me, it’s not your fault, what happened. You couldn’t have done anything to make it different. Don’t even think that way —_

I had said that stupid thing about Wally first. Dick had lashed back. Both of us said things about Wally that neither of us truly meant, both just trying to hurt one another, using the lowest blows we knew we could in dirty efforts to win the argument. 

Dick had assured me time and again that I was blameless. I had equally assured him of the same. We both had periods of self-reproach and responsibility where Wally was concerned. Given that I know I don’t blame Dick for what happened, even if I tore his head off and _said_ I did in a moment of desperate, blazing anger — I know Dick didn’t mean what he said. He doesn’t blame me for Wally any more than I blame him. 

I drag a hand across my eyes, then my nose. Does Dick know I didn’t mean what I said? Can I tell him as much? 

How will I ever pick these pieces up? How will I begin to apologize, how I will ever face Dick with everything he now knows about me? How will I approach him after what I said, what I started, what I put in motion? 

I stand, and walk aimlessly along the river, wondering about Mom and Mary, worrying about Dick, not concerned about Jason and Jade. Mostly, I fight to figure myself out — to create a road to follow from here. I won’t take the opportunity the night presents regarding my father. Not now. To do so feels even more wrong, even more of an aberrance than it did before — like a realization of all of Dick’s fears manifesting all in the span of an evening. 

It’s not safe for the greater public to walk this late along the riverside in Gotham, with the lamps lighting the path only every several hundred feet, and this same quiet, removed location inviting one on one crime. The stretch of pavement is empty and pitchy, peaceful in a sort of grim, portentous way. I welcome the isolation as I wander the trail, lost in thought and tangled in feeling. 

What do I do now, where do I go? With this cat out of the bag, it’s a whole different equation. I’m forced to look at my no longer furtive mission from a new angle, and one that makes it appear impossible to accomplish. My old stubbornness cleaves to it, insisting that the train is going and I’ll see it through to the end, but my more rational side whispers that maybe I need to accept this as a sign to abort the entire thing. 

The idea of putting a lid on it brings an unexpected, reaching breath of relief, but one abruptly snuffed when I consider my father’s tendency to show up and devil us at every turn. I’d love to retain a purity of soul, to remain upright and worthy of my daughter’s admiration and love, to hold my place on the team as a champion of justice and a true friend. The opportunity to do so is one that I’d love to snatch at immediately, and exhale in gratitude that the burden I’ve carried is now lifted. But… I can’t let my father hurt my loved ones, can’t let him hurt others. I can’t let his crimes go unpunished or unanswered for. Otherwise, this cycle will repeat itself, over and over again, immutable as that of the water and earth. My steps slow and drag, until I stop mid-mango, so crushed beneath this unseen weight I bear that I can no longer move forward. 

What will I do? Will I kill Sportsmaster, and then turn myself in, only seeing my daughter and lover through plate glass and chatting to them via a telephone until my end of days? Will I kill him, hide the evidence, and then go on, haunted by his triumphant, jeering ghost as I kill again, and again, and again — doomed to walking the same path that he did? 

Or will I just surrender to the definition of insanity, and do the most morally feasible thing all over again, here? That being to wait on the forensic evidence to ultimately nail him in Dick’s assault, and then just pray the cell will hold him within its confines this time? And if not, have blind, puerile faith that the justice system will eventually out and deliver him a sentence that will actually stick, even if that’s years from that point? 

As I always have, prior to now — 

I take a breath, and continue walking, thinking, struggling to unwrap the rebus of my teeming, conflicting thoughts and feelings. I send Mom a text to let her know I’m okay, but not to expect me for a while. I tell her I love her. 

I look at Dick’s text, the one I ignored, and sag, all traces of previous anger with him exorcised from me completely as I read. I swipe at tears, and clutch the phone to my unsteady chin. 

_I’m so sorry, Artemis, I should never have said anything of what I did, I swear to you I didn’t mean a single word of it, you and I both know nothing of what happened to Wally was either of our fault. I’m sorry for what I said about your father, about you. Again, I swear I didn’t mean it, ANY of it. I didn’t mean to condescend to you, either. Please pick up the phone —_

I want to reply. I want to call him. I want to gush my own apologies, tell him I love him, tell him I believe in him in spite of my fears. 

But I just can’t seem to. I don’t want to face him after everything he’s just discovered about me. Every assurance I give him, every expression of love and support I provide feels disingenuous and two-faced. What kind of woman plans on committing gleeful patricide and comforts her boyfriend in the same breath? How can I be a true, worthy partner to Dick when I no longer recognize myself or know who I am, when I’m so lost I might as well be back on that submarine, submerged in a world and persona so far removed from my understanding of Artemis Crock? 

Deceiving him was hard enough. But in that shroud of secrecy came a sense of protection, of safety. Only I knew what I was — and only Jason and Jade were allowed into that little world behind the veil. And they shared in that world, both of them knowing the nature of the burden I had chosen to carry. Dick was safe from it, on the other side of the curtain, and with his safety uncompromised, there was a separation about that secret place that made my mission bearable. 

The shroud is gone now, burned away, and I’m left standing bald in the open, forced to reforge my path, a new one in plain sight that I will have to answer for. I don’t know how Dick will ever factor into it, and nor do I know how Huntress now fully integrated as Artemis will, either. 

I don’t know. And I can’t face Dick until I do. 

So I just walk, moving in no planned direction, just heading wherever my feet decide to carry me. All the while, I dwell, I war, I ruminate. I battle to make heads and tails of everything. 

I haven’t come any closer to reaching any manner of decision or figuring anything out by the time midnight passes and the night slips toward pre-dawn. I’ve just walked myself into a beaten exhaustion, my feet hurting in the shoes not meant for this kind of mileage, and my back more so from hunching under my heavy thoughts. I release a long, thick exhalation, and trudge back along the trail, heading now listlessly for home. I can’t stand to think of showing my face to Dick, but I can’t stay out here all night, not with Mary at home. 

I snort without humor when I figure I can just put a bag over my head. Cut little eye holes out of the brown paper and draw a frowny face on it. The Bag of Shame. Maybe that’ll break the ice and get the ball rolling toward figuring out this entire mess. Possibly peel away the white tank I wear under my tee, stick it on a broomstick, and hold it out before me as I enter the house — a white flag declaring a truce before I come inside. The best strategy in diffusing Dick’s anger is to openly acknowledge wrongdoing and take responsibility for it — with a little humor. 

This is no time to express levity, but it’s the only option I have that will help me retain some sanity in this otherwise insane situation, and appeal to Dick’s sensibilities, too. I opt for it, and make my way home. I just hope the gesture of the makeshift flag will be enough to invite something of a reconciliation. 

I’ll have to figure myself out later. 

Getting to the house, it’s dark yet, and I produce the broom from the garage. I slip the tee from my torso and draw it out through my tee sleeve. My boobs won’t be a secret to anyone who might be in the house other than its usual denizens with my concealing tank gone, but I really don’t care at this point. I hang the cami on the end of the broom, and hold it out before me as I enter the foyer through the garage. 

“Dick?” I call tentatively, stepping inside, waving my little makeshift white flag. 

I walk through the main level, and not finding Dick anywhere, I head upstairs. Bracing the joke flag in front of me, I step quietly into the bedroom, then pause. He’s not in bed, and neither is he in the bathroom. 

I check Mary’s room, the basement. I go outside and check the Outhouse. Negatory. There’s no sign of Dick anywhere, from what I can see. 

I know it’s likely as simple as he went to the Manor for the night, but I can’t quell the worry that rises all the same. I call Bruce, characteristically awake at this unholy hour, likely coming off patrol. I’m alarmed to learn that Dick not only isn’t at the Manor, but that he sent Bruce a pretty heated text not long after he and I had our title bout in the Outhouse. 

I scour the Outhouse again, my fear rising as I try Dick’s cell and receive no answer. I text, then try calling again as I rush across the yard. _Nada, niente,_ zip. I ditch the broom in the garage, by now vibrating with mounting tension and fear. I hurry to my mom’s room to rouse her. 

I might be overreacting — Dick’s absence might be as simple as he’s opted to stay the night at Jason’s or a friend’s house, give us both time to cool down. But after last year, my mind leaps at once to the worst case scenario. 

Jason’s text in response to my query is a negative. Fully into frightened territory now, I phone Conner. 

“Is Dick at your place?” I ask, pausing at my mom’s door, my palm sweating on the knob. 

“No, why?” Conner says, his voice still thick with sleep. 

My heart falls. “I just — he and I had a fight, I took off on a walk, and — well, I just got home and he’s not here. Con, I can’t find him _anywhere,_ and he’s not answering his phone. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t lie, I’m freaking out a little right now. Have you heard from him at all?” 

“I haven’t,” he replies, sounding by now more alert. “Look, Arty, I’m sure he’s fine. Is he working with Barbara or anything tonight that you can remember?” 

“I don’t know,” I say, digging a hand into my forehead. “Hang on, I’m going to try her.” 

“Listen,” Conner says. “He may doing the same thing you just did — blowing off steam somewhere. Just give him some time, and I _promise_ he’ll turn up. I know it’s hard after what happened last year, trust me, I get that. But he’s probably just cooling off somewhere with some fresh air and quiet. Just like you.” 

I take a breath, and stuff the fear that continually rises into my gullet like a tide. Conner is, with all likelihood, completely right. I force calm, and exhale. 

“I’m sure you’re right,” I say. “Sorry to wake you up like this, Conner.” 

“It’s okay,” he says. “Keep me posted, all right? I’ll keep an ear out and let you know if anything comes up.” 

“Thanks.” I inhale. “I really appreciate it. And, Conner — thank you for answering, and listening, and just… you know, being you.” 

“Anytime. Again. Keep me posted.” 

I agree, then say goodbye. I text Barb, Tim, Zatanna. Nothing doing. I heave a sick, shaky sigh, and make my way out to the living room. I turn on and stare at the TV, not really paying much attention to what’s on the screen. 

_He’s just out cooling off, like Conner said,_ I continually tell myself. _That’s all. He’s fine. He’ll turn up any moment now…_

At around four, I get up, and nurse Mary, putting her back to bed as I grow increasingly ill at ease. She fusses, sensing my tension, standing in the crib and babbling at me. I stroke her hair, donning a veneer of calm until she at last settles, lying down curled around Little Zitka and wrapped in the blanket M’gann made her while I was still pregnant. I head back downstairs, and sit on the couch, checking my phone every ten seconds. 

Still nothing. Tears, again, press at my eyes, ones of stress and worry. 

_Dick, come on, where the_ hell _are you…_

Countless texts that remain unresponded to and unanswered phone calls later, when dawn trickles through the living room’s picture windows, I call around, no longer remorseful about waking anyone. The stress and worry have morphed into terror and furious panic. I’m two seconds from calling the cops and the area hospitals when I raise Dinah, close to last on my call list. 

“Dick actually called me last night and had me come over for a session,” Dinah explains. “I guess I left around midnight, but Dick was still home when I headed out. You said you can’t find him?” 

“No,” I say, completely sick, my stomach twisting into knots that compile on one another in endless, nauseating coils. “He’s not in the house, and no one knows where he is — he didn’t leave a note or anything to say where he might have been going —” I take a breath. “I’m scared, Dinah — it’s like he’s disappeared. You said he was still here when you left last night?” 

“He was. Listen, I’ll start making some calls, okay?” she tells me. “See if I can help track him down. He can’t be untraceable at this point, Artemis — we’ll turn him up.” 

I fist my hand atop my knee. “...Okay. Okay, thanks. I’m going to get up and look for him —” 

“No, you should probably sit tight,” she says. “In case he comes home. I don’t want to ring an unnecessary alarm bell, but the fact is that he _does_ have enemies at large, and one base should remain covered until we can find him.” 

I’m silent a moment, knowing that I _should_ stay where I am under the soundness of that logic, but not wanting to. I need to be out looking for him, I can’t _stand_ just sitting around here — but Dinah’s a hundred percent right. I have to stay put. If this is my father’s doing, and he comes around for Mary, spurring into motion all those things I so fear… 

I take a deep breath. “...Okay. I’ll stay here. Just please keep me posted — you and everyone else.” 

“Of course. And listen. I’m sure he’s fine, Artemis.” 

I squinch my eyes shut. “...I hope so.” 

After I hang up, I sit in the hum of the living room, and _wait._ My mother rouses at her usual early hour, coming out to find me where I rest tense on the couch. Tearfully, I bring her up to speed, and after she’s hugged me for a long, long time and we’ve shared nearly an entire box of Kleenex, she sits in quiet beside me. Neither of us speaks. 

_Please,_ I beg the universe, _please let him be okay. Just please don’t let anything have happened to him…_

And as the clock relentlessly ticks the unending minutes off, we wait. 


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER 11**

_Dick_

Once I’ve gotten myself out of the Uber vehicle and into the chair, I hand the driver an exorbitant tip, tell her thank you, and wheel down the sidewalk until I’ve reached the line of trees that marks my destination. I hang a right, and skirt the perimeter of Woodland Cemetery grounds. 

Rear entry, through the back, where there’s no fence. I can’t tell you how often I’ve sneaked into this place willy-nilly when the mood strikes, and even now, so many years later, it still does on occasion. 

I pause by the pond, illuminated under the moonlight and spotted with shifting amber patches, reflections of the pathlights that line the walkways. I brace myself by one hand on the left arm of my chair, and sift through some stray rocks at the side of the trail. Finding a tolerably shaped one, determining it to suffice after hefting it in my palm, I balance myself, and whip the stone across the water with an old, practiced movement of my arm and wrist. Satisfied when it skips with a _plunk plunk plunk-plunk plunk_ over the surface, I sigh, watching the ripples as they disperse. Still got it. 

I wheel about, seeking more rocks, piling qualified candidates onto my lap. I spend a little while skipping stones, calming down, re-anchoring; all the while, breathing like Dinah told me. _Yogic ocean breath, Dickie. I swear it works._

While I’ve settled a bit since dipping into consummate asshole/shitty partner territory and hurling that volley of helpless inanimate objects at my brother and wondering if I ought to page the ferryman to cart me off to Hell after my misdeeds this evening, I’ve still not scaled to the top of this mountain — it’s _not_ all downhill from here. Not yet. Too many cans of discomfiting worms opened, too many old wounds rent asunder, too many skeletons in the closet laid bare in the living room. 

I quit trying to raise Artemis, instead calling for an Uber after Dinah left and putting my phone on silent and Do Not Disturb. No one is going to contact me right now. I want to reconcile with my girlfriend, want to apologize and prostrate myself before her and return to grace if she’ll have me, but I’m not ready to face her after the terrible things I said. Nor am I ready to show myself to anyone else, for that matter. 

Once again it hits me with a feeling of tired awe that it’s so unlike me to seek solitude like this — extroverted to the atoms, I’m more inclined to attach myself to the coattails of whatever human happens to be nearby when I’m distressed. Company is comfort and home is people. It’s just another change of the vast many that I’ve undergone, this sense of overstimulation in too much interaction when I’m especially overwrought, and the need for quiet and isolation to get my head on straight. 

But there’s a feeling of being soothed, knowing I can still skip rocks when all else has failed, at least. I inhale, and exhale, those yogic ocean breaths. Dinah’s right, as always. This breathing pattern in particular is helpful. 

I skip the last stone, seven skips, and watch the uneven water as it returns to its former calm, the surface disturbed only gently by the humid puffs of the August breeze. By and by, I turn the chair, and head up the walkway. I know where I’m going so well I could beat this path in my sleep, having walked it many, many times since I was nine years old. 

I stop when I reach my destination — my parents’ plot. I set the brake on Yolo Swaggins, and transition myself to the little stone bench that faces the headstones. It’s a motion that was difficult once, but comes second-nature to me now. I lean back against the rough edge of the crude bench, not planning on going anywhere for a while. This is where I need to be, and it’s where I’ll stay until it comes time to face the music. 

Some days I’m fully accepting of the course my life has run — I miss my mom and dad, my aunt and cousin, but I’m thankful for the people I’ve shared my life with in the wake of their deaths, people I may not have met if that catastrophic event hadn’t befallen me as a child. It’s a double-edged sword, with the sharp edge of pain that the grief brings, but also the relief provided by the cool, soothing flat of the same blade. 

Other days I want to hurl rocks into the sky rather than skip them over the water, screaming at the uncaring universe about the _unfairness_ of it all. There are moments I’d give everything I have now in return for one more day with my family, and give it over without a second thought. 

For all I know that if it came to it, I wouldn’t trade Mary for anything, this moment is hedging on one of those. 

The idea that I couldn’t properly defend my daughter and loved ones, much less my damn self, from Crock has rankled into something truly massive, a mammoth beast with infinite layers and scales, each representing its own loss and pain. The loss of my family blends into the loss of living with Haly’s Circus, which bleeds into the loss of my traveling, honorary family and the only life I’d known up to age nine, which then spills over into the loss of my full mobility — and as such, my sense of self and identity. The use of my body being taken from me, the _loss_ of my body, represents so much more than just that. 

More than ever, the last tie to my family feels as though it was taken with my legs. I never felt a deeper connection with my mother, father, aunt and cousin, and on a different level my uncle, than I did when I was performing. There was always a deep-seated impression that they were _there,_ forever beside me as I sailed through the air to the shouts of delight from the crowds below, standing with me as I took my bows. I could all but _feel_ their presence, its sense nigh tangible in the air around me. 

That, along with everything that rendered me _me,_ is gone now. My last connection to the family that died has been severed, and the unquestioned ability to safeguard the family I have now has been destroyed in the same breath. 

If my mother and father were here, that tie wouldn’t be so painfully needed — my paraplegia wouldn’t spell so vast a feeling of _loss_ and _bereavement._ If there was only a way to integrate my old life and my middle life and my new one now — everything _might_ be okay — 

I gaze at my parents’ headstones, missing them so profoundly it _hurts_ in my sensate body, squeezing my chest and heart with brutal fists. I miss the sound of my mom’s voice, the voice that grows dimmer and dimmer with each year that goes by, the weight of my dad’s strong, protective hand on my shoulder, something that I also remember with less and less lucidity as the years perform their cruel, relentless march. At the same time, I miss the feeling of the wind on my face, the sensation of zero gravity and my form’s working parts operating in perfect tandem to execute rip-roaring motions with intense satisfaction, the thrill of exciting those watching and the joy instilled by bringing them lasting delight. All things I shared with my family even after they passed, now never to be shared again. 

I miss my old self. My old life. The middle life. 

Flying Grayson. Robin. Nightwing. 

I miss them all. I want them. 

It’s not to say that Oracle isn’t, in fact, an identity to also love and treasure, one to be valued with a reaching appreciation, in spite of my moments of doubt. Dinah reassured me just a little while ago that it’s normal, expected even, to downplay the importance of the new role when the old one was flashier and left more obvious a footprint. But, she also told me, this is the undercurrent work that ensures the showier side of heroism — it’s the legs it stands on, and without it, the whole thing would wobble and eventually fall. 

“Having you strengthenedthose weak legs and made sure this beast could stand and _continue_ standing,” she said, reaching over to me and clasping my hand. “You’ve said you feel it’s extraneous, like something to keep you busy and help you feel like you matter. Dick, that’s not the case, not at all. If you woke up tomorrow and were cured by some miracle, we would _all_ be begging you not to quit the Oracle business, probably going so far as to start offering to pay for your time. It’s everything we never knew we needed — and so many missions would be either entirely unsuccessful or so agonizingly _slow_ they may as well be written off as failures.” She squeezed my fingers. “Don’t shortchange yourself, sweetheart. Okay?” 

So… Oracle is a good identity. It’s good work. Valued. Useful. Not a placebo to keep me occupied, a sympathy move intended to make me feel important again. 

But right now, in this moment, I wish I could surrender Oracle to someone else, and have Nightwing back. Flying Grayson returned to me. The intangible connections to my loved ones that were wrested from my hands. I exhale, missing them, missing my old self, thinking I’d give up my present if I could just have five minutes of those days long gone. I think on the months leading to Mary’s due date, that first summer in the house — those were my glory days, my happiest time. What I would give to go back to the night of July thirteenth, and tell myself not to open that apartment door. To enter Hank’s office instead — to _save_ him. And… myself. 

How much would be saved if I just could — 

I exhale, and lower my head. I close my eyes, allowing all of my emotions to just move through me, _feeling_ each and every one, trying with all my might to do so without shame. 

“Feelings have no moral ascription, Dick,” Dinah told me. “They just are. You don’t need to feel bad about having them, no matter what they might be.” 

I take a breath, and look up, my eyes falling on the headstones. 

“...Hi, Mom,” I murmur into the quiet. “Dad.” 

******* 

Footsteps wrest me awake. I blink, rubbing at my heavy eyes, stalling the spins in my head. God, I fell asleep, unloading to my parents in the empty cemetery. That I remained upright against the back of the bench and didn’t go tipping over to bust my face open is something of a divine intervention. It’s since gotten light out, the sun creeping through the trees and bathing the grass and flowers in fronds of rich, misty gold. Dew and morning damp cling to the earth, tacking my shirt to me in the late summer mugginess, inspiring something of a shiver in spite of the warmth in the air. I inhale, inwardly shaking myself awake, and push my hair away from my forehead. I glance over in the direction of the footsteps, thinking it’s time to call for another Uber and get myself home. My heart lies heavy in my chest, still aching and full to the brim in spite of my unburdening. I don’t know if there _is_ any effective unburdening in this. 

I’m dismayed to see Bruce, marching along the walkway toward me, his steps quick and sharp. I tighten my jaw, not in the mood just now to see him. I look away, knowing my face has set itself to a surly expression, not caring enough to mask it. 

“Dick?” he says, picking up the pace, moving in a rapid beat toward the bench. 

I don’t say anything, just look back over at him by way of acknowledgement. My shoulders hunch. 

“God damn it, you scared the absolute _hell_ out of us, you know that?” he snaps, coming to stand in front of me, his bulk blocking the light from the early sun. He gestures. “Artemis was on the phone with the hospital and the police station — Tim and Barbara were scouring the web, Jason’s off on his bike searching the whole of Gotham for you — we thought Crock had caught up to you, or that you’d _committed suicide,_ for Christ’s sake —” 

“I’m s-s-sorry,” I sigh, feeling a twinge of regret in my abdominals at this, but also an odd, unexpected relief that at least I didn’t push Artemis so far away that she wouldn’t call around after me. “I didn’t m-mean to scare anyone.” 

“Well, you sure as hell did. How did you even _get_ here, Dick?” Bruce demands. 

“I c-called an Uber,” I say, scowling up at my foster dad, thrown on the defensive by his aggressive tone. “And on the DL — how’d _you_ know to f-f-find me here?” 

“I took a guess and hoped I’d be right,” he replies. “You know, you should have at least told _someone_ where you were going —” 

“Well, here’s a n-newsflash for you, Bruce — I’m n-n-not a child. I can do things on my own and I don’t have to r-r-r-report to a fucking adult if I want to v-visit my parents because I _am_ one. So do me a f-favor and start t-t-treating me like it — don’t talk to m-me like I’m nine years old.” 

“I’ll talk to you like you’re nine years old if you want to act like it,” Bruce returns. “You can’t just run off anymore. Not with things the way they are. I know you don’t like it, but you have _parameters_ these days. Not to mention, you still have a lot of enemies out there that _know_ the state you’re in and would be thrilled to have a crack at you. _Tell_ someone next time you want to get ghost after you’ve had a fight with your girlfriend, even if it’s only one person you swear to secrecy.” 

At any other time, if I could, I’d get up right now and storm off, likely giving Bruce the finger on my way out. But instead, the heat goes out of me in a giant _whoosh._ I sag, and let go a long, ragged sigh. 

“I know,” I mutter. “I’m s-s-sorry, Bruce.” 

He sighs, too, and sits down on the bench beside me. He produces his cell, thumbs the screen, and holds it to his ear. 

“I found him, Artemis,” he says after a moment. “He’s okay, he’s just in Woodland Cemetery at his parents’ plot.” A pause, and then he extends the phone to me. I shake my head, and then increase the gesture in fervency when he tries again. “He’s not up for talking just now. I’ll get him home in a minute, though, okay?” Another pause. “No problem. See you shortly.” 

He lowers the phone, and looks over at me for a long, long time, studying me. The birds, oblivious to the two of us, chirp happily as the sun grows stronger in its rising. 

“So,” Bruce finally says. “Talk to me. Why are you here, and why didn’t you tell anyone?” 

His voice is gentle enough, but I’m quiet for a moment, _not_ feeling like talking. When I do speak, my voice comes out slow and sludgy. 

“I just needed to c-c-c-clear my head,” I say. “A l-lot happened last night.” 

Bruce doesn’t respond, apparently waiting for me to go on. I don’t want to talk about the fight I had with Artemis, the implications of what she’s got going on under the radar, what it all means in any sort of broad picture — any sort of shop. It’s too much to even begin to compartmentalize, not with my brain being what it is nowadays. Maybe once I could have, but not now — because _parameters._

I decide to just take it one step at a time. 

“...I’m sorry about m-my text, Bruce,” I murmur. First things first. Angry as I might be, and even if that anger were justified, I shouldn’t have called my foster dad a fucking asshole. 

He shakes his head, his disposition visibly softening. “Don’t be. You really weren’t wrong, Dick. It… probably wasn’t fair of me to put you in the position that I did, no matter what the circumstances were.” He looks over at me, and then the world as I know it crashes to a halt when he says, “I’m sorry.” 

I stare at him in utter disbelief. “Did you j-just… apologize to me?” 

He nods, then gives me something just shy of a smirk. “Yes. Don’t get used to it.” 

For the first time since last night, I smile. 

“Well, I repeat my words from ages ago,” I state, “Hell’s officially f-f-frozen over.” 

Then, we sit in silence, neither of us making any motion or effort to speak. The quiet between us is companionable now, familiar; something we’ve grown used to and comfortable with over the years. Just keeping company, not speaking, not needing to. I just gaze at my father’s headstone, my mother’s, the heat growing around us and staying my shivering. 

Eventually, I breathe in, and on my outbreath, I break the quiet. 

“...I want my mom and dad so bad, Bruce.” 

I don’t know why I didn’t stutter, but that doesn’t matter when Bruce looks over at me, his expression like nothing I’ve ever seen on him. It’s not only the warm, paternal look he adopts every so often, one so rare and wonderful that it comes with feelings of Christmas Morning and birthdays, but also one of complete openness, not a single wall up between us. He’s never shown such candidacy or been so unguarded, even in his increased availability since my injury, and it dissolves whatever remaining traces of anger I might still hold onto. 

“...I know I’m not your father,” he says, his voice heavy, looking now at my father’s marker. “And neither am I half the man your father was. And… I know you miss your parents, Dick.” He shifts his weight on the bench, and turning his gaze back to me, says, “But… for what it’s worth… you’ve got me. Always.” 

I gaze back at him, tears pressing at my eyes and throat. 

“...I know, Bruce,” I whisper. 

There’s a pause, full of unspoken but clear communion, and then I take the opportunity proffered by this uncommon show of all guards banished — I pull myself closer to Bruce, and lean my head on his shoulder, resting against his solid warmth. 

There’s another pause, a few moments of apparent discomfiture, but in time, his arm goes across my shoulders, and his head rests against mine. I sigh, and close my eyes, basking in the feeling of this closeness, the sense of safety and validation it brings with it. 

“...I want to fly again,” I murmur, the admission falling out of my mouth beyond any volition of my own. I exhale, slowly, deeply. 

Quiet follows this confession, and then Bruce also exhales. 

“I know,” he says, his voice low. “Dick… last year… I’m sorry that none of us reached you in time. I’m sorry that I didn’t make it. That I didn’t know until it was too late.” 

I shake my head. “It wasn’t too late. You reached me in t-time. ...I’m alive, aren’t I?” 

Bruce, to my surprise, reaches over with his other arm, and full-on hugs me. I press my face into the solid plane of his shoulder, and closing my eyes against the material of his shirt with an emotional, overpowering satisfaction, I let more tears come. 

He might not be my father, as he said. He’s not the loving, affectionate presence that my dad was, and nor is he so open and inviting. But to say what he did — 

“By the way. D-d-don’t say you’re not half the man my f-father was, Bruce,” I murmur. “You were… you were the one who t-t-took care of me after he was gone. You taught me everything I kn-know — I mean _everything._ Everything from how to d-d-drive, to how to b-balance my checkbook, to how to not just be a functioning adult, but to be a _good man…_ and how to overcome a p-p-pretty serious upheaval.” I lean back a little, not pulling away, just enough so I can look at him. “You might not b-b-be my dad, you might not be _like_ my dad — but you are still my father every bit as m-m-much as John Grayson was.” 

Bruce holds my gaze in silence a moment, then just reaches over to me and draws me close again. He holds me like that a while, heedless of the damp and warmth that might otherwise make the gesture uncomfortable. Those things don’t matter now. 

“...Thank you,” he murmurs after a time. 

“Any time,” I reply. “You know I l-love you, old man.” 

“...I love you, too.” 

Hearing those words breaks something in me, ripping it open with a sense of lancing a deep boil, draining it and assuaging it. I hug Bruce with everything I have, letting him just keep holding me like this, drinking in the feeling of at last being _told_ that he loves me. I’ve always known, but to be told is a reassurance I never knew just how badly I craved until finally hearing the words spoken. 

By and by, when the sun’s risen into its midmorning gold, and the occasional guests have begun to meander by on their way to make their own visits to their late loved ones, Bruce speaks, still not letting me go. 

“Are you ready to go home?” 

I nod. “Not going to lie, I’m a little afraid to f-face Artemis, B-bruce.” 

“Why?” 

“I just… s-s-said some pretty awful things to her.” 

Bruce pulls back, and faces me. “Well. I guarantee she’s feeling just as regretful as you are. But moreover, she’ll just be relieved that you’re okay. That ought to break the ice before you can even say a word.” 

“...I’m going to owe Jason a pretty b-big apology, too.” 

“He’s not upset,” Bruce assures me. “Any anger he feels is anger at himself. He didn’t know the situation he walked in on, Dick. Not until this morning when he dropped in to check on Artemis. So in other words… he’ll be the one apologizing to you, I think.” 

I sigh. “Guess I’d better just f-face the music.” 

He nods. “It’s hard. But… in a classic case of do as I say, and not as I do, it’ll be better in the long run to face it.” 

I smile at him. “So self-aware.” 

He smiles back. “Only took a couple decades of life on earth.” 

I chuckle. “Yeah, well, some n-never figure it out.” 

He nods. “That’s the truth. You ready?” 

“Think so.” 

He glances over at the chair, and then turns his gaze back to me. “I only have the bike, so…” 

I chuff a bit. “Sidecar?” 

That had become something of a joke between us, my abrupt departure from leaping out of my skin with excitement at the prospect of zooming through Gotham in the sidecar. When I hit my pre-adolescence, sitting passively in the arbitrary seat, the seat reserved generally for children, quickly got a lot less cool — _I_ wanted to handle the actual cycle, and I made it clear I wasn’t happy about copping a squat in the dorky little attachment like an infantile, starstruck tagalong. It wasn’t long following my verbose displeasure that Bruce provided me my own bike. 

“I was always under the impression that you liked the sidecar,” he says humorously, quirking his lip. 

I half-smile. “I can handle the s-side car in my adulthood this one time.” 

“I’ll have Alfred get the chair,” he says, then surprises me when, in a motion so quick that I’d have been hard-pressed to fight it even in my prime, he rises and boosts me into the cradle hold, his movements so fluid and seamless they seem executed in one gesture. I can’t help chuckling at my undignified positioning, although even if I feel on some banal level a little stupid, I don’t fight him. 

“What’s this, the photo shoot for the c-c-cover of the f-first Harlequin slash romance?” I crack, obligingly lacing an arm around his shoulder to make carrying me easier. 

He doesn’t smile even to the slightest degree. Instead, he shifts my weight in his arms, and when he speaks, it floors me. 

“I’m letting you know I’m _here,_ Dick. That whatever happens… I’ll carry you through.” He pauses. “God knows you’ve always done the same for me, even if you haven’t realized it.” 

I’m silent a moment, uncharacteristically tongue-tied. When my tongue unknots itself, I have to fumble for the appropriate words. 

“Okay. N-no joking, then. Serious b-b-business.” 

They might have been something of a fail, given this is, in fact, serious business with no room for levity, but Bruce smiles nevertheless. 

“The most serious,” he agrees. “Let’s get you home.” 

And even if I feel it’s silly, gratuitous, cheesy, sappy, unnecessary, whatever — I let this happen, let Bruce carry me. I let him _parent_ me, nurture me, be there for me. I loop my arms around his broad, powerful shoulders, his mass solid and safe, his arms protective and sheltering. I lean my head on his shoulder, and ditch the shame in reverting to my childhood for these few moments. 

In time, when I’m carried through my front door, I’ll have to move back into my adult existence, apologize to Artemis for the awful things I said to her and for making her worry so immensely, salve the wounds I left on her heart, vow to make it all up to her in whatever way I can. Hug and kiss my daughter, let her also know I’m sorry for running out on the house, and on her, in the way I did, even if it was only for a little while. Return to the hard efforts of this lifelong physical recovery and discovering and maintaining self-sufficiency. Contribute to the almighty cause and take down the bad guys from behind the scenes. 

But for now, _this._

I surrender the fight that’s been in me for the last months, letting go with a powerful relief, accepting the love and support proffered by those around me, in this moment Bruce — not my foster father, but my second father. No longer will I determine to do it all on my own, and in the process, unwittingly depend on Artemis’ strength as my sole fuel source. I hadn’t recognized that that was what I had done up to now, and while I knew she carried the weight of a thousand worlds on her shoulders, I hadn’t truly seen what an enormous burden I had unintentionally placed on her, resolving to do it all myself while unknowingly drawing the strength to accomplish that from my girlfriend’s steady, tireless presence — sapping her dry in the process. 

For some burdens to be carried at all, they must be shared. I’ve decided to share this one. And I’m going to. 

I let myself be carried. Only if I do can I also carry my loved ones. I squeeze Bruce’s shoulders, gratified when he returns the embrace, as we reach his motorcycle with the once-dreaded sidecar. Now, the attachment beckons, promising its accustomed rush of wind and speed, the joy of an adrenaline rush in a (relatively) safe environment. Bruce lowers my form into the seat, something that comes with a tremendous feeling of regret — and I hug him for a long moment before I allow him to straighten and release me, not wanting to lose the sensation of his fatherly closeness just yet. When I’m situated, I lean back, listening to the roar and purr of the engine as it turns over and starts, and _feeling_ the air as it caresses my face following Bruce pulling onto the road. 

I close my eyes… and allow this, allow _Bruce,_ to carry me. 


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER 12**

_Artemis_

I’m sitting on the couch, lying back, my cell resting in my hand. I exhale, and gaze up at the ceiling. I hear Mary giggling in her crib over the baby monitor, but now I know Dick is okay and that Bruce will be bringing him home, I’m overcome by an encompassing fatigue. I opt to just lie where I am, and go retrieve my daughter when she’s changed her tune. I close my eyes a moment, waiting. 

Next thing I know, the sound of the door jars me awake — I fell asleep. _I actually fell asleep._ Before I can consider the novelty of such a rarely occurring thing, I leap from the couch when I hear Bruce’s voice, chased by Dick’s. I beat a rapid path to the foyer, hurrying up to the two of them as Bruce closes the front door. 

“Alfred will be along shortly with the chair,” Bruce says even as I open my mouth to speak, although now I’m confronted with my partner, I have no idea what to say. I pause awkwardly, and just nod at Bruce where he stands with his arms full of Dick’s weight in the cradle hold. “I took the bike to look for him and couldn’t bring it along.” 

I rub at the back of my neck, where strings of my ponytail tack to my skin. “Ah. Sidecar?” 

“Yeah. D-dignity’s overrated, anyway, right?” Dick says, half-smiling and partly laying some of my anxieties to rest. 

I half-smile, too, and follow them into the den. Bruce lowers Dick to the couch, squeezes his shoulder, and then turns to me. 

“Well. I’ll let you talk,” he states, then makes his way past me to exit through the front door. 

"Thanks for getting him home, Bruce."

He nods to me, then I watch his departure around the corner before the door shuts, my arms crossed over my front. I turn my gaze to Dick. 

At his expression, I soften, and fully relax immediately — all fears and tensions and uncertainties just pouring out of me as though loosed from a tap. It’s clear from the look in his eyes that he’s not holding onto any sort of rancor — those gorgeous blue pools only hold love and compunction, not even a trace of aggression, everything in his face mirroring my own remorseful emotions. I melt on the spot, dissolving abruptly and sans dignity into tears and rushing to him. 

“Artemis, I’m so s-sorry,” he breathes as I thump to the couch beside him, throwing my arms around his shoulders and burying my face in his neck. I shake my head as his arms go around me, hugging me tightly enough to pop my back and squeeze the breath right out of me. I only do the same, hugging him to the point that I feel kinks give. 

“No,” I say. “Don’t even. Dick — _I’m_ sorry.” 

He just keeps hugging me, and by the way he shakes in my hold, I know he’s crying, too. Again, I apologize — and this time, he shakes his head. 

We remain like this for a long time, just wordlessly hugging one another, sharing tears and unspoken regrets and apologies. All manner of things raced through my mind while waiting for word of my partner in his absence — he was snatched up by my father or another enemy, he was in an accident of some kind, he was attacked. Just to _feel_ him here, alive and breathing, unharmed and none the worse for wear, about turns me to liquid on the couch under the lancet of relief. An undercurrent of worry and discomfort stirs below the surface, knowing that he’s aware now of my criminal double life and all of its enormous, dangerous implications, but going by how he holds me in this moment — how tightly and how _close_ to him — that same awareness and all those ramifications are shelved for now. All that matters on this couch, and in this second, is _us._ I take a deep, deep breath through my tears, and slowly let it go. 

“Dick, I was so worried,” I murmur, freeing a hand long enough to scrub at my cheek. “I thought you were taken, or hurt —” 

“I’m so sorry, Arty — I should have at l-least left a note or something,” he tells me. “I didn’t m-mean to worry you. If I could, I’d prostrate myself and b-b-beg forgiveness.” 

I shake my head. “Oh, cut that out — no gratuitous prostrations necessary. I’m just _so_ glad you’re all right.” I hug him tighter. “Dick, listen — I’m so sorry about everything I said.” I sigh. “…You know how I can get, going off at the mouth without thinking first the way I do — I pretty much _chased_ you out of here.” 

He leans back, and clasps my face in his hands. “Stop. You didn’t chase me anywhere. I ch-chased myself out, with everything _I_ said — not to mention, I chased y-you out pretty effectively.” He casts his eyes downward a moment. “And I was so wrong. I should never have b-b-brought Wally into it. I swear, I d-didn't mean a _word_ of that —” 

I fervently shake my head, halting his words. I lean my cheek into his palm, relishing the feeling of the warmth of his skin, unimaginably grateful to sense it there. “Oh, Dickie, please. You weren’t wrong, okay? And you don't need to apologize, or explain, or anything like that. I mean... I brought Wally up, too." I sigh. "I think we _both_ said things we didn’t mean.” I shift a bit. “Listen… I _really_ can’t tell you how sorry I am about all that, I just…” 

I break off, and exhale. Here I am, already at the gigantic, reeking elephant in the room, and in spite of all of my mental rehearsals that transpired amid the soul-searching from the night previous, I, once more, have no clue at all what to say. 

After a few torn moments, I finally say, a little lamely even as my heart hammers with anticipation at having to discuss this godawful Dumbo and potentially send Dick packing for real and keeps this time, “...I just wanted to get you on my side.” 

Dick’s expression warms, and he curls his fingers in the loose tresses at my hairline. 

“Artemis,” he says quietly, “I _am_ on your side.” 

I gaze at him, absorbing these words. Whatever heat might have remained — it all goes out of me with them. They speak so many volumes, each one laying every last fear to a quick, unending rest. My heart slows. My breathing evens. The tightness goes out of my strung muscles. The heaviness leaves my form. 

Whatever happens from here, there’s no need to discuss it now. Maybe that time will come later, when events unfold and opportunities arise and decisions have to be made. But I know now that I can go to my partner with _everything_ I carry, that I can _trust_ him with these burdens, that I no longer bear them virtually alone and in weighty, draining secrecy. Those words, coupled with the look in his beautiful eyes, tell me all I need to know. That he’s always, always riding shotgun with me — no matter where the car is going. What that might mean in greater detail is for the future — not right now. 

This all unfolded so much more easily and serenely than I anticipated, but it’s nothing I’m going to fight or sabotage. I never expected Dick to remain the slightest bit open to me after I lied to him the way I did, and for all the dark, nefarious secrets I carried in those months. Anyone else might have looked at me with fear, with anger, with disappointment, and they would have been _right_ to do so — but Dick, here and now, is nothing but open arms and doors. I had thought he might let me back into our home, but attempt house arrest on me, never letting me out of his sight and bending over backwards to rehabilitate my wayward soul and shift my trajectory back to one of supposed righteousness. 

There’s none of that here. Only a remorse, an acceptance, an understanding, a compassion — and a surpassing love that I hardly feel I deserve after everything he uncovered about me. 

Dick pulls me close to him, and I lean in, resting on his chest, listening to the steady, soothing downbeat of his heart. It’s a sound that even now, so many months after his awakening, carries on it a feeling of relief and security — a reassurance that he’s _still here._ I loop my arms around his waist, and just remain like this, timing my breathing to his, our heartbeats synchronized in a fused, musical rhythm. 

It’s Dick who breaks this quiet, this extended moment of silent communion. He lays a hand on my head, his palm fitted to my crown, his fingers loosely woven in my hair. He tells me he’s sorry in his beloved voice, the same voice that assuages my fears like the sound of his drumming heart. These spoken sorries are words I rebound back to him, followed by similarly bouncing assurances that there’s no need. 

It’s when he derides himself for “being a vampire in my life,” that I protest more loudly. 

“Oh, come on, Dick — you’re not a vampire in my life,” I tell him. 

He shakes his head. “Well, you might n-not realize it, but yes, I am. Arty, look — whatever supposed strength I’ve exhibited up to now, I’ve d-drawn it from _you._ All of it.” When I start to argue, he again lays his hands on either side of my face. _“I have._ I haven’t meant to, but I have. What was it you s-s-said about me, that I’ve been a Viking through this?” I nod. “Well, if I’ve been a Viking, you’ve been like a f-freaking _Odin._ Which brings me to Thing Two, I’m so s-s-sorry I let my pride end up taking so much from you, however unwittingly.” 

“Dick —” 

“I mean it, Artemis. And listen — I’m not going to do that to you anymore.” He inhales, exhales, apparently thinking. “…I kind of realized when I let Bruce pick me up and carry me to his bike and put me in the dreaded sidecar without kicking up a b-big, stupid fuss that… riding versus driving isn't that bad. Having Bruce carry me instead of getting myself somewhere isn’t that bad. Unloading to Dinah instead of always you isn’t that bad.” He pauses a moment, his brows furrowed, pensive. “Basically… I realized it’s _okay_ to accept outside help, and that I’ve made peace with the idea. No more confining it to this h-h-house and feeling like if I’m n-n-not doing everything myself, I’m f-failing, and unintentionally falling b-b-back solely on you for support.” He brushes a stray tress of hair behind my ear. “So from n-now on, I want you to feel like you c-can lean on me just as much as I’ve leaned on you. You remember what I told you when you t-t-told me you were pregnant?” 

I soften. I remember very well what he said. 

“Lay it all on you?” I say. 

He thumbs my cheek. “Absolutely. That means everything — no matter what it is. And th-that goes even more so, now. You have _so much_ in front of you. _Too_ much. So… sh-share your loads with me from now on — every last one of them. Okay?” 

I’m quiet, although after a moment, I nod. 

“And on that note,” Dick continues, “I want you to know I’m here to stay, if you can still st-stand having me around after I chaired the Board of Losers and Douchebags last night.” 

I laugh, and smile. “Well,” I say, encouraged now even further, “likewise, if you’ll still have me after I headed the monthly meeting of the Twats and Bitches Club. As the song says…” I bust out my faux singing voice, “I’m stickin’ with you —” 

Dick joins me. “’Cause I’m made out of glue!” I laugh, and we keep going. “Anything that you might do, I’m gonna do, too!” 

We fall into a cathartic refrain of giggles, and I lean against him, my head on his shoulder. “It’s true, though, babe.” 

“Same,” he whispers into my hair. “As long as you can t-tolerate me, anyway.” 

I smile. “You’re not hard to tolerate.” 

He gives me a squeeze. “Neither are you.” 

“Dickie.” 

“Hmm.” 

I draw up, and gaze at him. “Thank you.” 

He smiles. “Always, babe. And I mean that. And… thank _you._ ” 

Although the air remains heavy with the emotions of the night and the enormity of what happened and is yet to come, the morning unfolds in a sort of relieved, quiet peace. We spend it with Mary, doing a little “Toddler’s Rainbow Yoga” with her, Dick participating in his own manner and assisting Mary in her motions. It’s such an _unburdening_ feeling, this, going through a little fun yoga with our daughter, bonding and reconciling through spending time with her and moving on our mats. Afterward, Dick makes (some pretty freaking stellar) coffee and French toast. 

“All those cooking tasks Jason gave you really paid off, not to mention that four digit coffee maker,” I announce, having polished off a mountain of the French toast. I barely stifle a belch. “Ooph. Uh, compliments to the chef?” 

“All taken,” he says cheerfully, smiling. “You know, that’s m-more than I’ve seen you eat in months.” 

“What can I say, it hit all the right notes,” I tell him, stretching my arms over my head. “Now I’m on carbo-overload, I think I’m just gonna go chill on the couch until late spring.” 

Dick laughs, and hands Mary to me. Jokingly, he gives my upper arm a squeeze. “Girl, you n-need it. Go catch some downtime — I’ll c-clean up in here and be in to j-join you in a sec. Need to call Jason real quick and get that air cleared, speaking of.” 

I position Mary on my hip, taking her little Zitka off the table to hand to her. “You sure you don’t want any help cleaning up?” 

“Yeah, I got it, babe,” he says. “Go relax.” 

I smile. “I love you, you know.” 

He smiles back, that gorgeous smile that never fails to turn me to water. 

“I love you, too.” 


End file.
